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“Did you know that Jane owns half the house?”
Betsy sat up, eyes wide. The look of shock was genuine.
“Did you?” Robin repeated.
“No.” She said quietly…”But it makes sense… lots of sense.” She stared directly into Robin’s eyes. “Do you think Jane killed her?”
“It’s a possibility, so are the other three women. You don’t remember anything else about them and their lives before they came to Roman Hill?”
“Oh god, I don’t know,” she replied, seemingly distressed, “it’s just too much to consider all at once.” The frail-looking Betsy started to cry and Robin reached out to cover her hand with hers.
“I’ll leave you for now. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I wish I could help you more,” she snuffed.
“Well, if you think of anything, anything at all that might help us out… You are talking to John every day, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell him, and he’ll pass it along to us, if you can’t get to Leslie or me.”
“I will,” Betsy replied. Beyond her tears for the moment, she looked up at Robin longingly, with the same hopeful look on her face that she had when the detective arrived.
She was certainly a seductive little thing, even in prison blues, Robin thought as she turned to leave. “Don’t give up hope, we’ve just started,” she said smiling.
Chapter Six
Jane’s club was downtown on the fringe of the commercial district, a good five miles away from Roman Hill; although it could easily be reached in ten minutes, since freeway on and off ramps were near both places. Leslie checked, starting out that night at the base of Roman Hill, timing the trip downtown.
Sapphos In Chains was located in an old warehouse building, something perfectly suited to the activity that went on there. Expecting a certain clientele and a certain manner of dress, Leslie wore a pair of brown leather pants she’d bought years before, when one lover had a motorcycle and she had consented to ride along behind her. The lovely vibrating feeling in her cunt as she rode the cycle was enough to keep her in the relationship for a while, though she was a little scared of being so “out there” and vulnerable on the bike. In addition to the pants, she found a vest of Rosalie’s, that worked pretty well by itself as a leather halter, just barely covering her breasts and showing lots of cleavage without looking too feminine.
Seeing herself in the mirror, she figured she struck a dominant persona; the submissive thing never really felt quite right, but then the Dom stuff just wasn’t her either. Wielding whips and tying lovers down was not her idea of fun. She much preferred luscious warm bodies, and hands exploring her flesh. She didn’t mind a few good spanks on the b
utt, or even on the thighs, pinched nipples, rough grabbing; but she liked to be equal with her partners.
She likely lost Robin because of this, but then, you can’t make people into something they are not.
Pulling more things from Rosalie’s vast wardrobe, she donned a pair of leather boots that looked perfect for her attire, and found some large silver cross earrings—a style she’d never wear on her own. She thought she might add a collar at her neck, but that didn’t quite fit. She added some touches of make-up that she wasn’t used to wearing, though she did take some pleasure in a tube of bright red lipstick she found in Rosalie’s things. Finishing off, she combed her long brunette hair into a tight bun at the back of her head, giving her a more severe look than she was used to. It was a stunning transformation; she could almost feel it excite her, though she had no idea what to do with the unexpected erotic feelings. It was certainly appropriate for the club, which she’d heard was one of the most creatively nasty clubs anywhere around.
Pulling up in front of Sapphos In Chains, Leslie was greeted by a leather-clad woman, who motioned her to a parking lot next to the building. Leslie was thankful that the lot was well lit; something about this whole scene was a little precarious, especially the chances these women took for their nightlife. She guessed that most simply weren’t worried about their safety, too tough for anyone, man or woman to tangle with. Even as a PI, however, Leslie was always respectful of her safety. Certainly there was safety in numbers here, and the street wasn’t empty. Several other nightclubs dotted the area, one for a straight yuppie crowd of singles, and then a dank looking gay men’s bar a few blocks down the street.
Entering the club took Leslie into an unfamiliar world, as fascinating as it was unusual. She’d been to a half dozen lesbian clubs over the years that were not unlike this place—she did this mostly for her investigations. However, she’d never been quite so interested in blending in with the crowd as she was that night. Her intention was to find out about Jane’s activities with as much subtly as possible. The police had already checked Jane’s alibi for the night of the murder and Leslie was interested in seeing if there were any holes in it. A thirty minute drive to Roman Hill and back wasn’t impossible, little more than a bathroom break. It would be easy to fall into the cracks in a place like this, people not really certain when you came, when you left, or how long you were gone.
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.
