Grave Robber for Hire (15 page)

Chapter 13

Tyreal tensed at the sound of the phone. “Bullshit.”

I ignored it and kissed and licked just above his navel, millimeters from his head, the one eager to meet my mouth. “Don’t. Answer. It.”

With a hoarse moan, Tyreal hauled me up, kissed me, and sat me aside. “Have to. It’ll be Tony.”

I pulled up the long ago forgotten towel and rushed to the bathroom. I hit the shower and the steam in the room wasn’t only from the water.

I was about to give him the best blow job he’d ever had.

Was so sexually frustrated I could hump the tap.

And he answered the god-damn phone.

Shame I hadn’t got around to fondling his nuts, I’d have popped them like grapes.

Mortifying.

I stopped the shower, blew out a heap of panting fury, wrapped myself in my towel and stormed out.

He’d redressed and wouldn’t give me a direct look.

“One! You had one chance. You blew it. Don’t touch me again.” I sure wasn’t touching him.

Tyreal looked at the carpeted hotel floor as if in pain. Probably was, with ball pain.

“I’m sorry, Princess. But I’d told Tony I’d be available tonight. He had to call with details. I’m to follow or lure Josey tonight to wherever she goes.”

“Well maybe someone
there
will blow you.” I grabbed my clothes bag and stormed into the bathroom and changed. When I walked out, he was pocketing his wallet.

“I have to head to the police station. They have an outfit.”

I ignored him and turned on the T.V. Outfit? He needed an outfit?

“Princess, please, I’m sorry. I should have called him back later.”

He waited for a response, but he waited for nothing. Viggo poofed in. He now wore a soft blue modern button down shirt. Nice. He wore black leather pants. Vig looked from me to Tyreal.

Tyreal ran his hand through his hair. “Stay here and don’t answer the door for anyone but me.” He turned and started walking for the door.

Viggo stuck out his leg. Tyreal hit it and smashed his shoulder into the door, straightened and stared at the void and scowled.

I barked out a snort of laughter.

Tyreal shut the door so I of course beat the crap out of a pillow. I’d let my guard down and been slayed. There is something very humiliating when a man will answer a phone rather than receive a blow job. Something I excel at. Not that he’d ever freaking find out—now.

Jerk. Moron. Ass. Jerking moron’s ass. Yeah that’s what he was. Hope his balls ached all week.

Oh crap. He couldn’t get caught by Josey. I didn’t know what she was, but I doubted the words normal or human were part of the description.

To find out what she was and keep stupid men slash partner safe, I had to get involved in the kink action. Besides, Josey might have more information about the Rembrandt or other journals or letters from Clyde at her other places of torture. She seemed to know more about the painting than Claudia. It’s my job to hunt for all clues related to my case. Following Tyreal and Josey should be easy. Neither would be expecting a tag along. I just needed the name of her club.

I trotted to the hotel’s little notebook. Good boy Tyreal. He’d jotted down the name of the club. Devil’s Whip. Not a bad name considering.

I needed a major outfit purchase to suit such a club since I doubted the clothes I had with me would suffice.

I grabbed my handbag and ran downstairs. Six cabs waited at the curb. I ran to the first on the rank, slid into the backseat and asked the driver, “I need to go to Devil’s Whip. Do you know where there’s a shop I could buy an outfit to suit this time of night?”

“Know about six adult shops nearby, they’ll have the gear. I’ll take you to the biggest.”

#

The Adult shop sported shelves and shelves of sexual goodies. Perfumes from massage lotions, the sour outgassing from PVC and latex, and the underlying smell of old sex, assaulted my nose. At the counter, a multi facially pierced and tattooed girl dug at her cuticle with her inch long nails. Her hair was spiked and varied between purple,
fuscia, and jet black. She was really pretty in a really pretty way.

When I got to the counter, she gave me a half smile. “Can I help you?”

“Hoping so. I’m going to Devil’s Whip and want to blend in. Can you make a few suggestions?”

The girl appraised my fifties
look. “Cute outfit. How far you wanna go?”

“Far?”

“In the look hon. How kinky?”

“Full on, as if I’ve been there a hundred times.”

Her smile stretched. “Sure, follow me.”

We walked into another large room. All four walls were encompassed with racks of clothes. I spied a few clichés. “No waitress, nurse thing.”

“Wasn’t going there for you. They wouldn’t let you enter in that shit.” She walked to a rack that had tiny little outfits hanging off the hangers and pulled out a red mesh tinsy thong and a top with almost two triangles of fabric. “Thong has a zip all the way around down under and up. It’s plastic, so softer than metal, won’t dig in. The bra comes in a few sizes. What bust cup are you? E, F?”

“Good guess.”

She grinned. “Feels gay sometimes, but I’ve gotta know shit like that in here.” She flicked quickly through a rack of satin, mesh, and metal. Plucked out a hanger and dangled a tiny outfit for my perusal. Contemplating wearing it, I tried not to gape or blush, didn’t succeed. “Only got a small in a DD to F in gold or black. With that blond hair, I’d go with gold.”

“But it’s see-through.”

“You got bush or you lasered?”

I blinked a few times before I caught on. Bush—hadn’t heard it called that for years. “Some of both. Part Brazilian.”

“Okay, you probably don’t want pubes poking through.” She shoved the outfit back into the rack, reached back to one she’d already bypassed. “Here try this set.”

This set, had a bigger bottom, more of a boy leg and was made of super shiny and thin latex. Holes more plentiful than Swiss cheese patterned the piece. The bra made the same way was attached by a chain to the pants. “Are my nipples meant to poke out of this?” Polka dot bikini with nipple polka dots.

“Of course, but if you’re embarrassed I’ll get you stick ons. Got bats, butterflies, lips, spots, bullseyes …”

“Bats, give me the bats.”

“You’ll need shoes, maybe boots.”

There were several rows of ridiculous shoes. Then I spied red thigh high, spiked but not unwearable or
unwalkable, shiny boots. “The red ones.” I pointed to the pair I liked.

With the help of the sales assistant, I dressed in my outfit and bought a cheap satin coat to cover it up.

Out of her own handbag she dumped out a supermarket worth of makeup. “This is going to be heaps of fun. You want to be recognized?” Danni the girl asked.

I thought of Josey, Tyreal. “No.”

By the time Danni was finished, I was a blonde bombshell with curls smoothed to dead straight so my hair caressed my butt cheeks, five inches of I’m outrageous Elvira makeup—super heavy on the eyeliner, and fake lashes so long I had difficulty holding my eyelids up. I smoothed on slut red lipstick and grinned.

I. Was. Hot. And didn’t recognize myself which was probably good. Unrecognizable, I could deny I’d been to any such club even to myself. Or maybe I’d give myself some sexy kudos and tell everyone I went to the ‘Devil’s Whip,’ listen to them gasp.

Kudos are fun.

#

At the club entrance, gripping my riding crop tightly for moral support, I tried heavily for casual, I’ve done this a million times. I took off my coat, and handed it and my bag to the cloak attendant, read the club’s rules and signed myself in. The huge male bouncer, dressed in a leather vest and pants, arms oiled, grinned. Not because he was thrilled at the sight of my near naked curves, more I think because my shaking hands screamed virgin here, virgin here, and not the sweet sixteen type.

He opened the door and a blast of stale air and loud music assaulted me. Head held high, I entered the foyer and stopped dead. A sea of sensation hit me full force. Perfumes, stale beer, sweat old and fresh,
recycled air heavy with a sensual musk. I could run out and ditch two hundred bucks of microscopic leatherette wear. Thank god I’d wear the two hundred dollar boots again.

Rich ripe club music pulsed. Rich ripe mostly bare bodies writhed to the beat. Overhead, and against one dark purple wall, hung a large gilded metal go-go cage. Inside, two women wearing large strap on dildos tongue kissed. I’m pretty sure I didn’t want to see the full act, in fact, I’m positive I didn’t. I kept watching anyway.

A couple joined me in ogling. Avid gaze glued onto strap on girls, the man slid his hands down his partner’s tiny thong and started playing with her. His erection, growing bigger and harder every second was trapped in a painful looking string genital cage. The bigger his dick got, the tighter the cage dug in. He didn’t seem to mind at all. The sight would make most guys cry.

Hell,
I
wanted to cry.

Danni said that fetish clubs were about the scene and lifestyle more than sex. Looking around, I guess sex also plays a role. At least in this club.

In the far corner I saw a stage. Places like this had shows? Now I needed to find either Josey or Tyreal or both.

Two men and a woman stood on stage. The woman wore a leather mask. Only her eyes and mouth showed. Tall and lean, dressed in a mesh body suit with a tiny devil embroidered over the crotch, she possessed a figure almost hot enough to make me gay.

Luckily the guy walking over to me was enough to turn me back straight. He too was tall and lean. He’d chosen a getup more 1930’s gangster, with a twist. The pinstripe suit made of skin tight Lycra ended just under his ass and looked incredible over his gym buffed body. I wondered if he wore a package enhancer or if he had just thrown a grapefruit down his pants for effect.

He gave me a full body scan. Lifted the corner of his slightly too full lips. “Here by yourself?”

“Um, sort of. I’m meeting a friend, but I can’t see him.”

“Bad for friend, good for me. I’m Josh and you—are—hot. Like the bats, hope they’re edible.”

Edible—dang, I never asked. “Thanks.”

Oddly I didn’t feel wrong standing nine tenths naked in front of a stranger. Most in the club were similarly unclad or fully naked. One lady wore nothing but some thigh high boots and glitter on her
hoo-hoo. A tall lean guy, not a stitch except for a metal choke collar like you use to train a dog. A couple behind Josh moved to a small stage. The man reached up and took hold of two straps on the wall. His female partner kicked his legs apart, and using the small whip she held, started whipping his back. I flinched on each strike of leather and flesh and turned to Josh.

Holy shit
. Behind Josh stood Viggo and Viggo did not look turned on or amused. He eyeballed Josh, lifted the side of his lip in a superior sneer, and cracked his knuckles. “He easy to take.” Then turned and stared at the stage.

Surrounded in dark purple mist, the woman in mesh chained two men together to face each other, then forced them to their knees. She jammed ball gags into their mouths and strapped them tightly onto their heads. After dragging long talon nails down their bare backs, she lit a black candle and dripped the resulting wax onto the men’s wounded skin.

At every drip I winced. I looked around: whipping, burning wax, nipple clamps—nuf said.

A woman about sixty and dressed as Bugs Bunny walked past. Ears, fake teeth, little pointed tail, which had to be glued on, and nothing else. Along with some spectacular sagging skin, she had the best fake boobs I’d ever seen. The man behind her, who judging by the loose folds of skin and drooping balls, was older, dressed as Elmer
Fudd. Fake gun, big floppy hat, braces attached to a dick sock and nothing else. They walked over to the dance floor and started gyrating and dry humping.

Oh fuck, I’m blind, I’m blind
. I scrunched my eyes shut, turned back to the stage and mesh lady.

I asked Josh, “Why are people dressed up as cartoon characters?”

“It’s cartoon night. Later, they have prizes.”

Josh brushed against my side. “She’s the real deal.”

“Who? The woman on the stage?”

“Yeah, calls herself Lillith. Not very imaginative name wise but she’s a real
Domme. Watch her with her submissives. She’ll play with them for a while. Later in the night she’ll select someone who presents themselves to her. If their willing to empty their bank accounts, and she considers them special enough, sometimes she’ll take them home for a special event. Big dollars. They say she’s the best. Must be, she gets a lot of repeat customers.”

Gleaming with undeniable excitement, sweat poured down the faces of the guys onstage. Black wax covered a large portion of their backs.

“Her customers go for seconds?” One look around, and I knew BDSM wasn’t for me. My taste matched Tyreal’s, vanilla with the odd topping. No career change to Domme for me. A race car driver sounded better every second.