Chapter 1

August 1945

Clicking out a familiar tune, my high heels resonated from the walls as I made my way up the flights of steps to the third floor. Exiting the stairwell, the signage jumped into view, my trade shingle. ‘Theodora Drummond & Associates, Private Investigators,’ emblazoned in black paint on the pebbled glass of my office door.

The truth was, I found seeing my name and profession decorating my own office door, something, which made the difficult work worthwhile.

I was a woman, making my way in a world dominated by men. With this admission, I owed part of my success to the war effort. The harshness of the times demanded I couldn’t ignore the situation. Which was, no one would’ve given me the time of day if many of the men in America hadn’t been off fighting Hitler and Tojo. But give this devil her due, I acted with diligence to achieve a measure of prosperity. The warfare now ended; that notwithstanding, I wasn’t going anywhere. For you see, I earned my position in the world.

The long, rough day left me wanting nothing more than to go home. Well, I also wanted Aaron to come over and relieve my tension. With fond memories of our earlier cuddle, I smiled to myself as I opened the unlocked door. Assuming Aaron waited for me, a thought dawned on me, he took the initiative and entertained Estelle and her Girl Friday until my arrival. Being late for my appointment caused me to contemplate my tardiness. Might be, perhaps, I stayed at the docks considering Lady Liberty, too, long.

As I stepped into my reception area, the back of my head exploded. This blinding, burning pain detonated across the back of my noodle. The floor rushed towards me. Twisting to the right, as gravity took hold, toppling downward like a tree succumbing to the ax, I glanced around the waiting room.

Crap, one of my heels broke, “No, I love these shoes!”

The heel skittered off across the tile, making a peculiar high reverberation. A severe impact shook my body as I crashed to the deck. Confusion took hold, and I tried to comprehend.

Sliding away from me, my purse spilled the contents within, makeup compact, lipstick, and other sundries insides sprayed out across the floor. Worst of all, my .45 colt flew away from my reach. All the debris came to rest at Aaron’s face. The young man’s eyes moved around under the lids. Thank God he lived, dreaming, or more likely having a nightmare.

Trying to push up, I pressed my hands, planting them on the cold tiles. Thump, another vicious blow, sent a shockwave deep into my skull. Darkness rose with the force of a tidal wave, submerging me.

As the surging tide overtook me, I slipped below the surface of consciousness. The light in the room faded into black. Leaving me with only a few disjointed flashes of awareness. A vast stillness enveloped me as I clung to memories, trying to fight off the eclipse covering me in nothingness. The night before, such a long time ago. Dear God, couldn’t be more than 24 hours since Aaron and I balled up together in my bed?

The world died or slept, whichever world I fell into, either possibility, so, frightened me.

****

21 Hours Earlier

Thinking of my lover, back in the mid-1940s, the term for a promiscuous man comes to mind. Active-duty gentleman, in no way, described Aaron. The entire day, he’d been an eager beaver. Most guys have this built-in sense when things are going right. In this regard, Aaron himself was a regular feller. However, not being wanton, the knowledge, something was about to happen, triggered nervousness.

All day, all evening, Aaron’s uneasiness showed. Stumbling through the day, dropping things, missing his mouth with the water from a fountain, spilling his popcorn everywhere while we watched The Woman in Green. The tension increased after arriving at my apartment.

The truth is strange, for I, myself, didn’t appreciate the reason for his trepidation. When I took his hand, guided him to my bedroom, and took him in my arms, he trembled.

When our lips met, he calmed, and we clutched one another in a long loving embrace. Once we broke apart, I again controlled him while removing his clothes. In an apparent hurry, Aaron rushed, I slowed him. When I had him in his birthday suit, I directed him in undressing me. More blundering, I thought his ineptitude, endearing.

Tossing the covers from my bed, I positioned him on its edge. Getting between his legs, I kissed and licked him, working my way to his erect member. When my tongue touched his dick, the thing exploded, sending globs of semen across his chest, belly, and dribbling down the shaft. Gazing into his eyes, he let go a catalog of apologies as heavy as his discharge.

Undaunted, I retrieved a wet washcloth, cleaned him, and resumed his first lesson in making-whoopie with Theodora Drummond. Over the next several hours, we made love, long, slow, stroking, and rough, raw, blazing screwing. At best, we were out of sync. Despite Aaron losing his load, I kept riding away on top of him. And I’d shutter through an orgasm, and he stayed rock hard.

If memory serves, I allowed him to be on top, oh, I think, twice. But for me, on top, in control, punched my ticket. So, my being experienced and aggressive, I dominated him in this area. As I controlled him in all other areas. The hour turned late, and so we embarked on our last hump of the night. This took some time, and we, at last, synchronized.

In a fierce flash, the first wave of my fifth orgasm overtook me. Rolling my hips, riding the tide, I rippled above my lover. With massive, violent, rough thrusting of my hips, I brought him closer to the edge. Hungry eyes devoured me, gazing at me with adoration while I fucked him hard. The young man belonged to me. As sure as the sun would rise in the morning, I owned him. Controlling him, guiding him, nearer, nearer, at last, I release my clutch on his cock and balls, letting him cum.

Less cream this time than before, his seventh. Still, he added more of his seed to my soaked pussy. In ragged huffing, his breathing made his chest heave, slivering his tongue over his thin lips while his eyes held mine with a hungry, craving glower. With greedy clutching, his paws roamed over my back, arms, and butt. Taking his arms into my hands, I pushed them down on my bed.

“Be still,” I ordered him.

With a noticeable reluctance, he calmed himself. Descending to him, I lowered myself and wound my legs and arms around him, covering him with a protective cocoon. Now that the three and a half hours of fevered rutting passed, the night’s adventure remained as only a fond reminiscence in our afterglow. All the while, his semen seeped from me over his belly. For many long minutes, we stayed together in the warmth of our first hesitant torrid bout of mutual, satisfying self-indulgence.

Yes, self-indulgence is the word, well, for want of a more polite one. The experience satisfied me, which, in retrospect, was all that mattered to me that night. Considering my partner’s rather tender years, coupled with his professed lack of knowledge, our copulation proved memorable. With our lovemaking finished, at least for the moment, it was time to move on. As to me, I turned my attention to something else, for I longed for a shower and sleep. Slumbering all alone in my bed!

Most women are clingy after sex. They fill up with this neediness, wanting, so much, for him to cuddle, cooing in her ear, while the man ‘toys’ with her equipment, and entertains her with praise as she comes down from her adrenaline high.

Well, screw all sappy, sentimental twaddle! Not my style.

Frankly, I wanted the fellow out of my bed, on his feet, moving out the door as soon as possible. Now don’t take this wrong. After all, I liked Aaron, liked him a lot! And to my surprise, I discovered I had the hots for him. Still, after I’m done with my partner of the moment, I want solitude. Not unlike Greta Garbo, I want to be left alone.

Being aboveboard, I think I was wired like a man, at least, where bonking was concerned. Hum, I suppose this doesn’t speak well of me as a woman. Understand this, I was a hot-blooded, all-American gal, and I craved quiet solitude after the tussling ended. Even now, take me as I am ... or leave.

My bedroom was more in shadows than light. The eerie yellow glow of the small bedside lamp lit my room. My room began to feel mundane in an odd manner. Old wood-paneled walls showed their age. I thought to myself, perhaps an apartment wasn’t the best place for me. Thinking, wow, I need to buy a brownstone and move up in the world.

“Never satisfied are you, Theodora; nothing is ever, good enough, for you?” The words of a so-called old friend crossed my mind.

My rooms seemed old and worn-out to me. Couldn’t shake the thought, and I wondered why. In actuality, the rooms changed little from when I first moved in. The point might be, the wear didn’t belong to the room. The thing was, perhaps, I’d been made old before my time.

Used up from all the cases over the past five years. Nothing about most of those jobs would be called appealing or adventurous. However, they included lots of lies, cruelty, and piles of bull-pucky. Each case chucked full of twists, turns, and dead ends enough for Chandler to have pounded them out for Marlow to solve.

A study in semantics, if Marlow were a woman, would she be Phillipa?

Weeks seemed like months, and the months wore on as the cases ground me, like salt in a mill, in their wake. Fatigue stifled me while frustrations attempted to drive me off my rocker. Send my soul to below ... I loved my life, my work. I didn’t believe myself old, not yet. Unmistakable, the mileage on my equipment, as sure as hell, showed.

As I Approached my 31^st birthday, I felt as old as the cobble stone streets outside my building. Question, do those bricks feel the footfalls, the tires as they drive over them, the unkind weight of trucks laden with goods? No, because they, unlike me, aren’t alive to feel the torment of life.

When Aaron touched the scar on my belly, I rolled away. Wiggling into a more comfortable position. Ever curious, Aaron turned persistent. Fingers danced over me. A light touch sent a shiver as his index finger strayed over the scar on my lower back. Tracing the wound to the slight bulge next to my spine, he pressed.

“Does this hurt?”

“No!” I said, which wasn’t, altogether, a lie.

Numbness, not gnawing, radiated from the point like ants scrambled across my back and legs. No, not painful but most unpleasant. Rising from the bed, I caught Aaron’s frown in the mirror. Upset, I no longer laid with him, I suppose. His curiosity about my scars overflowed. In a stubborn determination, he refused to ask how I got them. While I, with as much resolve, declined to volunteer the information.

In the adjacent bathroom, I cleaned myself. After which, I returned to the bedroom.

“Rise and shine, dear, go wash up, and change the sheets on the bed,” I told him in a manner, which let him appreciate I’m the boss, in my home, at work, in his life.

“Oh, gee whiz, Miss Drummond, can’t I rest for a bit?” he said.

Adamant in my desire to be alone, I shook NO and pulled my nightgown over my head, maintaining my attitude. On this occasion, the time came for him to leave.

I understand how cold-hearted this sounds, but this was me. Smoothing out the nightie, I glanced at the U-shaped, plunging neckline, which covered my breasts but exposed my cleavage. Turning, I faced Aaron, his hungry eyes fixed on me.

“Now go and wash, dress, and please change my sheets, honeybunch. You can doze when you’re home.” I sat at my dressing table, applying cold cream to my face. Spying on him out of the corner of my eye.

As I thought, he touched his privates with a washcloth, without washing much at all. Tossing down the cloth, he grabbed his shorts and yanked them up, covering himself.

Before he might take his tight, little ass out of the bathroom, I stood in front of him, hands on hips, with a stern scowl of disappointment on my face. Tapping my toe, I raised a hand, pointing at him.

“Right this moment, you march, you’re not so sweet butt, right back into the sink, young man!” I said, and I scolded him more about hygiene.

Like a puppy, Aaron ducked his head, retreating once again into the bathroom. After I had tugged his shorts down, I eyeballed him with a harsh stare of disgust. Standing behind him as he held his head down in shame.

“Other women are not as fussy about their own self as I am. Be honest, dear one, you don’t want to catch something, do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You must wash well when you finish having sex, as soon as you’re done. Clean yourself and keep your dick clean.” Pausing, I added, “If you want to be my steady guy, sugar.”

With vigor, I lathered him up with soap and scrubbed him. Not being tender, perhaps I was, too, rough. With dogged tenacity, I scolded him while I worked. A happy smile came over his face at my words. Thinking about this, my calling him my guy mightn’t be wise.

“Bonkers! I’m sort of sore...” he said as he moved forward against the sink, attempting to scurry away from my rough touch.

“Comes from screwing like bunnies, honey,” I said as I scrubbed him. After I rinsed out the washcloth. Being a smidgen more tender, I cleaned all the soap from him and handed him a towel before turning and striding away from him.

To read this story you need a Registration + Premier Membership
If you have an account, then please Log In or Register (Why register?)

Buy this book at bookappy

The Case of the Rich Man’s Wife

Millie Dynamite

$3.24

If you enjoyed this story, try Vengeance is Mine at Bookapy

Vengeance is Mine

Millie Dynamite

$3.04