Private Dick

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She was a looker all right–fine coat, double breasted button-down pink blouse with black trim and with a knee length skirt that hugged her bottom– and it was a bottom that deserved to be caressed. Long dark hair, fair skin, green eyes emphasized with perfect make up and lipstick the color of an oriental ruby. She was tall and firm on five inch heels and her jewelry looked like the real thing. Her purse might have cost as much at my car. And no one could stop looking.

Normally the girls at Ruby’s would have swarmed over her, only she was a little too much. We get pretty girls in Ruby’s; usually baby dykes cruising for a good time or a new experience for their diaries. We get a couple who crave the thrill, who come because they want a hard spanking and an even harder fuck from a dyke who knows her business. But this one, well, she intimidated everyone just a little, she didn’t look scared, didn’t look put out, didn’t look like she was on a cruise and out for adventure. She just looked, took a seat at the bar and ordered a glass of white wine.

You see, Ruby’s has a reputation. It’s one of the oldest dyke bars in the flats, down by the river where in the old days the women who worked the mills would come for a glass of whiskey and a hook up. It was probably nicer back then too, because the girls at the mills made serious jack– and they spent it. These days it was down to a bunch of regulars who couldn’t forget tradition; a few locals and the hookers who came in when they got sick of their johns and their pimps and wanted a pussy to eat because that at least helped them feel. The dykes in the day were said to be rough, but today some were rougher. Switchblades had come out once or twice when I’d been there. This woman did not belong.

But I belonged. Ruby’s was where I went to flirt and forget. My name is Dani, short for Danielle which is what my Mom and Dad named me when they had high hopes that I’d grow up to marry a doctor. Instead, I married an artist in a secret ceremony because it wasn’t legal back then. Carolyn and I were married in the back of a gay bar by a Dudeist priest right in front of my family and our friends. Carolyn’s family wouldn’t come, not for a woman. Not for me. She was my everything until that day in Afghanistan when my world ended with a big bang and her shattered Humvee flipping over in mid air. I was soon edited out of her life. I had to watch her buried from a distance, watch as the mother who’d thrown her out like she was garbage accepted her flag. While I–who’d shared her life and bed for years– was shut out of the service. I watched as they were acknowledged while I was ignored. They wouldn’t even let me serve as a pallbearer.

And that’s why I was sitting in the corner with my shirt mostly undone with Shirley feeling up my tits. Shirley was an extra curvy ginger femme with a double dose of freckles, a friendly smile and a taste for being fucked–which is what she was forever trying to entice me into. Sometimes she succeeded because the bad stuff went away when she was ass up taking Big Girl deep.

Truth was, at Ruby’s I had choices. I’m pretty for a butch, always was, not like a model pretty or that girl on “The L-factor”, but then I don’t dress like a model either. My hair is short like a boy’s; I wear a little eye makeup but that’s it; and I rarely dress like a girl. I wear women’s pants because they fit and highlight my ass, but one thing I’m not is girly. That day I was wearing a striped suit, with a man’s white shirt tucked into my pants and unbuttoned to my navel (thanks Shirley). No Bra, suspenders and heavy work shoes. And it works for me. Yeah, I had my choices, but I’d chosen seven years ago, and the fact that Carolyn was dead didn’t undo that decision in the least. I still wanted to choose her. I wished I’d died with her on that dusty road, blown straight to Heaven.

“Looks like prey, Dani”, said Red Brandi, a red-headed leather girl with a taste for pain. I’d indulged her once and she, like Shirley, wanted more. “Maybe I should go over there and see what she wants.”

“Leave her alone, Red,” I said and got up to forestall her. See, Red Brandi likes dishing out pain even more than she liked taking it. I knew Brandi kept a blade down those black leather boots. I knew she might use it. Not that she’d use it on me though; we’d fought once and she’d ended up face down in the toilet. Which, strangely enough, had turned her on. Thankfully, Brandi doesn’t hold grudges, and she’s smart enough not to mess with me. So I headed across the room, nodded at Ruby and held up two fingers and with a glance Ruby knew what I meant. She’s a smart girl Ruby, older than my mother, tougher too, but really like a Mama to most of us so long as you don’t cross her.

I sat down on the stool next to Picture Perfect Girl, who was her phone talking to someone and not looking too happy about it. “Fine, Eric, be that way!” she said and in a rich English accent, the high toned one you expect from the residents of Downton bursa eskort Abbey rather than the plainer cockney of the staff. Her voice was rich and deep, and it touched something in me. Maybe it was my schoolgirl crush on Emma Peel, but it was something, She was something.

“Having a bad night,” I asked, quietly, picking up the scotch that Ruby plunked down in front of me and pushing the other to her.

“I’ve had better.” She looked back at me with narrowed eyes– a little bit suspicious, not that I’d have blamed her, Her eyes swept up and down me and I couldn’t tell if she saw the bulge Big Girl made in my trousers, because there usually a reaction when someone does see. Especially a femme. “So why did you of all people decide to sit down next to me?”

“I thought maybe I’d tell you where you are. You’re in the Flats, and this isn’t the best part of town. A woman like you could find herself in a spot of trouble.”

“So you’re my savior, eh? A strange woman in an unfamiliar town in an unfamiliar country and you thought to rescue me strictly out of the kindness of your heart.” Her voice had an edge to it, an anger and challenge that you didn’t get from many around here.

“No, I just thought I’d tell you the score, because you are are in an unfamiliar bar in an strange town and an even stranger country. I’d thought I’d tell you the redhead in leather who is smiling at you keeps a knife in her right boot and she isn’t the only one. Bobbie over there,” — I pointed at platinum blonde with tits by Intel— “is a hooker and she’ll try and get you to her pimp who goes by the name of Gentleman Jim. He’ll want to put you on the streets with her and he isn’t averse to carving his girls so long as it won’t affect their curb appeal. You are a stranger in a strange town.”

She stopped for a moment and looked at me as if considering. And then she took a slow, but long, sip of the scotch I’d pushed her way. “So why don’t they mess with you?”

“Because I’ve kicked enough asses to earn respect.”

“So you’re tough.” Her eyes were on me, green, and her cheekbones were perfect. She was pretty and it was affecting me, which was dangerous.

“I’ve been around long enough to know the minute you start thinking you’re tough is the moment when you meet somebody tougher.”

“Well spoken,” she said, lifting her glass. “What is this?”

“Macallan’s. Ruby keeps a bottle or two for me.”

“It tasted like good scotch. Better than I’d have expected in here.” She took another sip and set her glass on the bar. I raised two fingers and Ruby came and refilled us both.

“I discovered real scotch when I was in the Army.”

“A soldier then.”

“Used to be.”

“And you got out.”

“I figured two tours in Afghanistan was enough.” And one shattered hummvee. Of course I didn’t tell her that.

“Well I can understand that.” I saw a bit of kindness in her eyes, or maybe it was respect. Well, it was something.

“So what brought you here?”

“An ex-boyfriend. He asked me to meet him here.” And she practically spat the words out, so angry she was.

I laughed, and oddly enough a moment later she did too. “It may be I had it coming. We were lovers a couple years ago, and it ended badly. My fault mostly. I sort of wanted to, well have a drink and bury the hatchet.”

“Where did you want to bury it? You’re not dressed for drink, you’re dressed for a night out. Which might end up as a night in.”

She turned and give me a long look with a wry grin. “He had his faults, but Eric was always a really good shag.”

“Sounds like sex is important to you, and you don’t much care about convention.”

“Perceptive aren’t you, soldier girl?”

“Well, English, it kinda comes with the job. I’m a private detective.”

“Like in the movies?”

“In the movies you solve murders. In real life you find people who generally don’t want to be found, or you expedite a divorce.”

“And how does one expedite a divorce?”

“Get evidence of adultery.”

“So . . . you hide in the shrubberies with your camera.”

“Sometimes. But sometimes I am the girl because when I want to be I’m pretty. Men are suckers for a pretty girl in tight clothing.”

She looked at me closely and she also looked at where my shirt was unbuttoned. “Yes, I can see that. You are pretty. So you become the man trap?”

“It’s not like women don’t cheat. But it’s a lot harder to set a girl trap.”

“So what’s your name, detective.”

“Danielle, but my friend’s call me Dani.”

“My name is Elizabeth, but my close friends call me Liz.” She held out her hand to shake. And it took it, her grip was firm, not harsh, just right, enough to show she meant to be where she was, like everything else about this woman.

And she held it just a touch longer than she needed too. I liked that.

“Well, I think you ought to know something about Ruby’s, Miss Elizabeth. You may have noticed there aren’t bursa bayan escort any men in here. With a few notable exceptions they aren’t welcome.”

“Like Bobbie’s pimp,” she asked with a wry smile.

“Oh he’s definitely not welcome here. Ruby’s got a shotgun behind the bar and she’s not afraid to use it. And he knows she will. And don’t think about what the law might say. Gentleman Jim’s black and a known pimp while she’s a white woman who owns her own business and stays out of trouble.”

“And how does one stay out of trouble running a lesbian bar in a bad neighborhood?”

“Don’t let the minors in, even though many of her clientele would welcome the fresh meat. Including Bobbie.”

“So Bobbie likes pussy.”

“Bobbie likes everything, so long it’s not a john.”

“Including that bulge in your trousers?” When she brought up Big Girl, it was as if seeing a woman wearing a strap on under her clothes was nothing at all, just a tidy tidbit to be noticed when it would have spent most straight girls into nervous spasms. But not Elizabeth. I found myself liking this women. “Do women really like that.”

“Most do, even if it’s just now and then. And some men too, from what I’ve heard.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that too,” she said with a wry grin and a long drink of scotch. “So does it disappoint you that you may have wasted good scotch on straight girl?”

“It’s mine to waste,” I said, noticing how she had said “may have” rather than something more definite.

“What happens when a girl dances with you? Do you think it will turn her on?” and she turned her shoulders a bit, pulling her blouse tight up over her breasts. I looked too, and for a moment I thought maybe that was her intention.

“Sometimes it does turn them on. And is it really that different than dancing close with a man? If he likes you swells and no way you can miss the feeling of a hard cock pressing up against you.”

“Touche. Sound like you’ve danced with a man before.”

“I’ve done more than dance.” And I had. And once or twice I’d really liked it. But nothing like I’d loved touching Carolyn. “But I had someone once, and after her, well, I couldn’t go back.”

She nodded as if she understood. I decided it we needed a change. I reached into my phone and tapped on an app. A few minutes later the heavy chords of punk guitar filled the room. I reached out to take her hand. “Care to dance?”

“I would,” she said, following me out onto the floor. I wondered how she’d dance in those heels, but it turned out it didn’t matter. Elizabeth could dance, she was graceful, balanced and free, moving her body like waves on the sea, liquid and urgent, following the beat perfectly. We danced close, my hands on her hips, and she came in close enough that Big Girl brushed against her. She didn’t back away like most straight girls. I wondered if she was a baby dyke out dabbling, out for a night of adventure in a foreign land. No better way to spurn one man who had stood her up than in the arms of another. Knowing men, the fact that I was a woman she was pressing tight too might only have made him want her more. Which she could rub in his face.

Yeah, I thought all those things. But I didn’t mind if that was her intention. Soon she clung tight to me; breathing into my ear and pressing her thigh between mine, pressing on Big Girl enough that I could feel it too. I started to get the idea this evening might turn out very well for the both of us. I pressed to her and she pressed back, unashamed and unabashed. My hands slid about her waist, my right finding the small of her back, and my left in her elegant hair. I could smell her perfume, the good stuff, the sort I sampled at the store but could never afford to buy. She smelled good, she felt good and right then I really didn’t care about anything else in the whole world.

And then the song ended. She turned to me,close and asked. “Mind if we step outside for a smoke.” I agreed. Normally I’m not much for a smoker, but I didn’t mind, and didn’t want her alone. So I led her out the back door to the alley, back by the dumpsters and a couple cars all lit on the ghostly orange glow of the streetlights.

She kissed me. Just like that. She yanked me tight and into me pressed her kiss into something intense and deep. I opened my lips and her tongue plunged in, sliding deep, seeking mine for a dance only two can have together and my hands went to her, pulling her tight as her arms wrapped around me. “I hope you live close,” she said breathless, her eyes sparkling in the night light.

I took her hand in mind, fingers lacing together as I led her down the block, past three houses to a fire escape behind an old store with wooden siding with peeling white paint. “I hope you can climb in those heels,” I said.

“Watch me” she said and sped upward, climbing like a monkey. She met me at the first level, just some thin porches with two apartments, TV on in one with bursa ucuz escort the sound of canned laughter passing through the windows. I led her up the next level then to the the top where the stair ended at small porch with two window boxes full of marigolds, My key slipped in the lock the door clicked open and we were inside and in each other’s arms. She took a look around.

I bought my furniture used, but it’s comfy enough. I had prints on my walls, mostly vintage band posters, but some Degas and Manet. My bass sat in the corner on its stand next to the amp, which drew an eyebrow. And then she saw the Painting. The one original in the room. Like most people, she just stopped, then moved in for a good, close look. It was a portrait of a young woman. A woman who was naked and unashamed painted in black outline with dramatic colors, not realistic, not impressionistic, something else. A woman with a big smile while leaning back to show her pussy to the artist, like she wanted to entice her.

She looked at, then she looked me, then back to the Painting again. “That’s you, isn’t it.”

“It is.” Carolyn was an artist. She painted everything. Walls, villages in Afghanistan, our friends. She gave out paintings to friends and as payment for big favors. Most of all, she painted me. She painted me sleeping. She painted me reading. She painted me cleaning my M-16. And this time she had painted me right after fucking. I remembered, I was sitting cross legged in our living room and she came in with just an artist’s smock and a smile, her body still shiny from our sex, her taste still fresh on my lips. I remember looking at her, and her lookin back through her big, wide lensed glasses, smiling that wide toothy smile. I opened my legs to entice her, arched me back to show her how wet and needy I was. I wanted to make her hungry. She saw me. “Don’t move,” she said and picked up her pencil. In a few hours it was done. She ran to kiss me as I sat their stunned at what she had seen. Now Elizabeth saw me as Carolyn had, naked, wanton, shameless in my lust and need. Her mouth fell open, eyes tracing out every detail. “It’s beautiful. Who painted it?”

“My wife,” I replied.

“You’re married!” There was a note of disappointment.

“Widowed.” I replied. The room fell silent.

She paused, slipped her hand in mine, lacing our fingers together, then she turned pressing tight, but kissing me more tenderly, yet with real hunger. There were tears yes, my tears for Carolyn but she licked them away and held me, her hands upon me “I’ll go if you want,” she said in slow whisper.

“No, stay,” I squeezed her hand and kissed her back.

She paused, letting the moment linger like a puff from a cigarette. Then she pounced. She pressed tight to me, pushing me back to the wall. Her tongue pushed into my mouth, lips slick and breathing hard, her chest pressed tight to mine, hips tight too. Her fingers snaked around my neck, yanked aside my suspenders, puling my shirt apart to bare my breasts to her fingertips. I got busy too, fingers flying over her buttons, of which there were too damned many for the rush I was in! Before I got it off I felt her fingers undoing my pants, opening them and pulling out Big Girl as got the last button open to yank down her blouse.

She removed her own bra and within a minute we were both nude, except for her panties and Big Girl, strapped tight to me.

“Do you think you’re going to fuck me with that?”

“I most certainly am going to fuck you with that.”

“What if I fuck you with it?” She smiled and put her hands on her hips. “Change is good right? Must you always be the one who wears the dong? Maybe I want to fuck you. Tell you want, I’l wrestle you for the right to see who wears the dick.”

I laughed and began to unbuckle Big Girl, stepping out of her and setting her base down on top of my nightstand so that she stood straight up, tall and proud. “If you win you can fuck me any way you want to.”

“And if you win . . . . ” She attacked. I was still bent over the bed setting up Big Girl. She caught me off balance. In a flash she was on top of me, long, strong thighs wrapping around my midsection as she drove me face down on the bed. “I cheat,” she hissed into my ears, struggling to control my arms. She was strong. She was quick and had longer limbs than I do for a leverage advantage.

But she had no training and it showed, I rolled hard and fast, surprising her so she didn’t react in time, working against her thumbs I freed my arms and it was my turn to grip her arms to pin the back against the bed, pushing them over the thick oaken headboard of my antique bed. She fought hard, but with a smile as I began to sense a game and cheated myself, pressing my hip hard into her mound so that every time she rolled I pressed against her pussy. I found enough control of her upper body to extend my tongue and lick the underside of her jaw and whisper how much I was going to love fucking her. And she groaned as I spoke.

But she didn’t quit. Her eyes flashed and her thighs squeezed, but they only squeezed my thigh harder onto her wet cunt. And slowly I left saliva coating her chin and neck. And then her ear where I told whispered that I was going to fuck her until she begged me to stop.

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