Demise of the Diva

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

“Can you tell us what you have on Betsy Longcore?” Leslie politely addressed the rotund detective behind the metal desk. She and Robin felt as if they had been shoe-horned into the cramped office where there was hardly a breath of air to be had. Robin coughed, while they both attempted to peer through the cloud of smoke surrounding them. The blustery detective was exactly the kind of man they abhorred, reason enough to enjoy the company of women.

“A knife, Betsy Longcore’s knife, complete with her fingerprints. She and the Roman lady were into this bondage stuff, figure she got a little too into it, if you know what I mean, and she stabbed her. There are enough reported arguments between them to suggest a decent motive.”

“Betsy found the body?”

“Betsy Longcore killed her. She had the knife in her hand. Didn’t let go of it until the police came on the scene and took it from her.”

“There’s a lot of explanations for the knife,” Leslie charged.

“Yeah, and one good one. She murdered the dyke.”

Leslie sighed, “Is that all you have?”

“Aw ladies, there’s a whole lot more,” he said, leaning back in his chair, blowing more smoke in their faces. “We got pictures of Felicia Roman with all sorts of women. Real, what do you call it ‘Domme’.” He just had to snicker as he said it. “Your Betsy Longcore was jealous. Had every reason to be. The way I see it, she’d had enough of her lover lady running around on her. Plus, she was in the house all night, she admits that. With everything else we have, we don’t need a whole lot more. We got bags of evidence to comb through, but I don’t think it’s gonna change a thing.” The detective ground his jaw against the cigar, a little spittle running from the corner of his mouth.

Leslie waved the cloud smoke out of her face, then tried to catch a fresh breath—impossible as that was. “There were three other women in the house that night, too. Have you considered them?” she asked.

“Humm, let’s see,” the detective looked at his reports. “There were three, yeah, all living in that fleabag of an old house, this Martha Quigley, Remy . . . ah something or other, real long name, and some chick, Zelda, from New Orleans. They tell me they were playing their own parlor games that night, and that they were all fast asleep at the time of the murder, safely tucked in their beds.”

“You assume they’re not lying?” Leslie asked.

“We’re considering their stories, Ms. Patrick. But you can leave that for us to sift through.”

“It seems to me that you really have a lot of possibilities that you’re not seriously considering. How about Jane Hugh?” Leslie asked.

“Yeah, I got something on her too. She was in a lesbo bar with a bunch of dyke friends of hers. Her story checks out.” The detective looked up at them with a case closed attitude, and a silly smirk. “You two play their games?” he asked, motioning to Robin and Leslie with an insinuating gleam in his eye.

Leslie had to bite her tongue.

“You’re out of order detective,” Robin said, with a degree of purpose that Leslie rarely saw from her partner.

There didn’t seem to be much point in continuing the conversation. There was obviously plenty of evidence to indict Betsy, but there was also enough loose ends to tie knots all around Roman Hill Estate.

“How about some dinner?” Leslie asked, as she and Robin were out on the street again, breathing the fresh air.

“I don’t know whether I want to eat after that,” Robin answered.

“I know what you mean,” Leslie replied. “But I’m still famished. A little food might settle me down.”

They found a small diner near the station, and sat down opposite each other in a booth, both ordering soup and crackers.

“My stomach is doing flip flops,” Robin said, while staring into Leslie green eyes. “Pictures were pretty horrible. Not a lot of blood, just that small wound.” Her voice trailed off.

“You had trouble looking at them, didn’t you?” Leslie asked. “You didn’t have to, you know.”

“It was okay. They didn’t really look like her. Her face especially, twisted so strangely. By the way, did you notice the knots on those bindings?” Robin added, suddenly having gathered her senses and returning to business.

“Sort of. Why?”

“Tied by an expert; they were all the same,” Robin said. “I don’t think Betsy could have done it. She’s not a top, never has been, that I know of.”

“Someone else could have done the ropes,” Leslie suggested.

“An accomplice, yes, but it doesn’t feel like that.” There was a faraway look in Robin’s eye, as if she’d gone some place else in her mind just to find the answers.

“Suppose we ought to go to Roman Hill tomorrow,” Leslie said.

Robin nodded. “Those women up there are holding back, if that’s all they told the police. Little enclave they have there. Probably all trying to protect each other. I mean they all might have wanted Felicia dead.”

Leslie smiled. “That could very well be. I think we need to look at the possible motives first. It would appear, except for Jane, that they all had opportunity.”

“No airtight alibis,” Robin agreed. “But then again, I’m afraid that every woman who has ever known Felicia would have some kind of motive for murder.”

“Oh? You too?”

“God yes, cantankerous hellion that she was. Until I decided that she was certifiably crazy, I wanted to ring her neck a dozen times.”

Leslie tried not to laugh. Though she was glad to see Robin lighten, even if it was just a little. She would love to have had her in bed that night, just to hold her again. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of a way to get her there. The rule about their platonic business relationship was firm, from Leslie’s as well as Robin’s point of view. It had been that way for several years. Though this was one day that Leslie wished she could break it.

“Suppose we meet at the Hill, ten o’clock?” Leslie suggested.

“Sounds good. I need a long night’s sleep,” Robin replied.

“You get one, you do look awfully tired.”

After the soup, crackers, a little more stilted talk, and a tender good-bye, Robin watched Leslie walk toward her truck. Her brunette friend then stopped to look at her, until Robin was by her own car and getting in. That little protective gesture was rather sweet, Robin thought. But then that was Leslie’s way, even if Robin hated the idea that her partner thought she needed protection right now.

After watching Leslie drive away, Robin drove up town, to a seedier side of the city where there were dank apartments, empty office buildings and a smattering of light industrial factories on their last legs. Discarded paper fluttered in the streets, while upended trash cans cluttered the sidewalks. There was an eerie, lonesome feeling about this part of town; even drug dealers and hookers steered clear, simply because there was no one with money to buy what they offered. A few sad people wandered about on their way from one lonely moment of their lives to another, somewhere in one of the squalid flats above ground level.

The little flat that Robin sought was up three flights, although taking those stairs was like walking into another world, away from the menial one on the street, and far away from her normal fast-paced life. Robin saw from the street that the light was on; Britta was home. She breathed a sigh of relief and began the long trek.

Minutes later, Robin’s knock on the door produced a vague reply, which was enough encouragement to walk on in, even though she wasn’t quite sure what the woman had mumbled. It didn’t really matter, Robin would go in regardless.

Once inside, she looked around the expansive apartment searching for what she wanted. Didn’t take long to feel the sweet s****l warmth rush into her thighs; the moment she smelled the incense burning, her craving ignited—a conditioned response, she supposed, after so many sessions in Britta’s den.

“You look like s**t,” the woman said from the fog of smoke around her.

Robin looked up to see the object of her search reclining on a daybed in one corner of the room. “You’ll take me tonight, please?” Robin asked with a hopeful half-smile on her lips.

The woman stared at her, as if she was reading a page from the book Robin wrote inside her heart.

“Of course, my little Robbie,” she answered, noting her guest’s thinly disguised distress. “You need it especially hard tonight, perhaps?

Robin nodded.

The incense was so thick it was beginning to burn her nostrils. She breathed it deeply, thinking there was a trace of cigarette smoke in the vapors, along with the scent of some mystical eastern herbal concoction. She breathed deeply again, letting the smoke soothe her into that other side of her life. The heat between her legs expanded, burning hot and demandingly.

“You should have called first, but I’ll take you,” Britta said curtly. “Sit on the stool.” She pointed to the space in front of her.

Robin spied the familiar piece resting innocently between her and Britta. It was a little round thing; its needlepoint cushion reasonably comfortable, but clearly humbling. The stool was so low that when she sat on it, her legs were above her bottom and naturally spread wide apart. Of course, this was part of Britta’s design; the position required was unabashedly submissive.

Sitting on stool now, however, in jeans, not naked or in a revealing skirt, the position didn’t have quite the right effect. Her cunt would be spread out and exposed if she were dressed properly for a meeting with Mistress Britta.

“Working?” the Domme asked, noting how Robin was dressed.

“Yes.”

“Too much for you?”

“I just need to forget everything for a while. An old friend of mine is dead.”

The Domme almost broke out in a tender smile, but like so many things with her, it was too subtle to know if she was exhibiting any affection. The woman remained reclined on her couch, looking like a haughty queen bee. Her strawberry blondee hair was piled on top of her head, although it was starting to fall down in a messy disarray. Maybe it was bedtime and it didn’t matter what she looked like anymore. Britta’s lips were as red as an old brick, and she gave off an ancient scent even though she wasn’t very old. She could be arrogant or kind, depending on the need, but the look she gave Robin now was pure disgust.

“You’ll take off your clothes and find something I’d like to see you wear,” she ordered, waving Robin to a corner of the room, where a massive wardrobe stood with its doors wide open and garments spilling out around the floor.

Robin rose to her feet and walked to the wardrobe, disrobing quickly. There was just her blouse, bra, jeans and panties to shed, and of course her shoes and socks. Once naked, she felt a chill in the air that gave her goosebumps. A slender woman with gentle curves, Robin’s best assets were her shapely legs, and perky breasts that, though not large, stood out full and round. Her large n*****s were frequently so hard they poked shamelessly through almost any garment. Robin knew Britta would admire her, even though she wouldn’t say a word. Still, Robin liked knowing that she pleased her mistress this way.

Reaching inside the mass of clothes inside the wardrobe, Robin pulled out a red leather bustier, thinking Britta would be especially pleased with the choice. She let her mistress see what she’d picked, lowering her eyes submissively while she waited for the woman’s approval.

“That’ll be enough,” Britta said as she watched, focused on every move the blondee woman made.

While in front of the mirror, Robin pulled the two sides of the bustier around her middle so that they nearly met; then she laced them as tightly as she could, feeling an erotic swell inside her loins, as the self-imposed bondage began to have its effect.

“Pull it tighter, Robbie, will you?” Britta called out.

Robin tugged harder, pulling at her breasts so that they were pushed up to the top of the bustier, having no where else to go. Her n*****s sat just over the edge of the leather, while below, the bustier stopped just past her waist. The soft swell of Robin’s hips and the lovely ‘V’ of her cunt radiated an aura of erotic need, matching what rumbled through her needy body.

“You can sit now,” she was instructed.

“You will have my ass, won’t you?” Robin asked anxiously, as she returned to the needlepoint stool.