The Red Scare Read Online Free

chains free of the drawer. Then I scuttled back around in front and ripped the mystery shelf open.
    It wasn’t at all what I’d expected – a stash of hardcore film reels and pornographic books and magazines that told and showed all of the purple pleasures of Sapphic enrapture; or maybe a sister stash of illicit narcotics. No, it was a startling compendium of Communist pamphlets, leaflets, manuals, and coded message logs, complete with a Comrade Lenin quote sheet and Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book writ large.
    It all spelled out revolutionary, as un-American anti-capitalist as beet-red borscht pie. Constance wasn’t just maybe a redhead; she was a sure enough Red!
    I gaped down at the tools of Cold War propaganda in dismay, my pussy sinking, my nipples shrivelling. Then I jumped as high as the Kremlin onion domes, went white as the Czarist forces at Tannenberg, when somebody suddenly said, ‘Looks like I caught you red-handed!’
    I swivelled and gaped.
    Constance Cumming was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, a small, snub-nosed .22 pistol clenched in her pale fist. Her pretty face was set grim, her perfect body in a black, form-fitting stretch-dress motionless.
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘I – I work for the building leasing agency,’ I told her. ‘I was just –’
    Constance thumbed back the hammer on her purse gun. The metallic click matched the one in my throat when I gulped.
    ‘Try again.’
    ‘I’m Megan McCarthy. I’m a private detective. Adele Katz hired me to find out if you’re a natural-born red – head.’
    Client confidentiality always went out the window in an emergency. Just ask any other dick.
    Constance’s lush lips curled up into a slight smile. ‘Uh-huh.’ She gestured with the lead dispenser. ‘Turn around, and put your hands behind your back.’
    I turned around, and put my hands behind my back. Her voice was commanding, as well as damn sexy.
    I watched her sidelong in the mirror, as she walked over to her littered bed and plucked a pair of fur-lined handcuffs out of the pile of play toys, her gun sights trained on my back all the way. Then she stepped over to me in her high-heeled black boots and slapped one of the furry rings onto my right wrist, snapped it shut, did the same to my left wrist, shackling my hands together; quick and professional, like she’d done it many, many times before.
    ‘We’ll just see if your story rings true,’ she breathed in my burning ear. Before walking back over to her bed and setting her gun down on the nightstand and picking up the telephone.
    I slowly turned to face her, as she dialled a number. The kinky lady was secure in the knowledge that her handcuffs could hold me, as they’d probably held other women in even more exciting situations. What she didn’t know about, however, was the key I keep in a special little sewn-in pocket in the back of my panties, just for occasions like these.
    When it comes to handcuffs, one key fits all. I’d wriggled out of plenty of possible police identification and interrogation tight spots with my snub little silver lock-opener. My fingers squirmed under the waistband of my slacks now and into the rear of my panties and gripped the key. I showed it some air behind my back, used it to snap the cuffs open with a dexterity that would’ve done Houdini proud in a pinch. All the while looking glumly at Constance with the phone receiver pressed to her pink, clam-shelled ear.
    She couldn’t reach the person on the other end of the line, whoever it was. And when she turned her eyes and body slightly to place the phone back down on the nightstand, I pounced.
    I dove right over the toy-laden bed like Johnny Weissmuller, latched onto Constance’s shoulders, and barrel-rolled over on the bed, taking the startled lovely down with me. We splashed about in the dildos and dongs and whips and cat-collars. Until my superior cougar strength and weight got the better of the mewling kitten, and I flopped over the top of