The Red Scare

The Red Scare

by Lynn Lake

NOOK Book(eBook)

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781909520721
Publisher: Xcite Books
Publication date: 04/25/2013
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 47
File size: 171 KB

About the Author

Lynn Lake’s fantasies could fill a book – and have (or, at least, parts of many, many books). Her imagination substitutes for a somewhat dreary existence in the middle of nowhere home to a particularly harsh climate. She’s a frustrated crime writer (few markets) and an unfulfilled SF author (no science background). Her erotic experiences, frankly, look better on paper, where she need not discriminate based on couplings, positionings, flogging devices, and/or binding materials. Rich, thick, wet ink spilling out of the golden nib of a finely-crafted fountain pen onto bright, white, textured paper is a form of ecstasy to her, free of STD’s.

She has a cat and an insatiable craving to express herself. 

Inspiration comes from everywhere, everything, and everybody she meets or sees or visualizes, but mostly from her mind (very often early in the morning when she first wakes up). She doesn’t wait for the wet muse to tingle her in the appropriate places, however; oftentimes she just sits and stares at a blank piece of paper (Hilroy, lined, in a wire-bound notebook) until an idea strikes her and she pen-strokes it, first into a brief outline, and then into a full story (which usually goes through a, minimum, three-draft process). She’s fairly well-read and quite good at mimicking other styles, which helps in the whole process, as does her natural shyness.

Read an Excerpt

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.

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