Lurid Detective Stories: “The Price of Blood” – Part 2

Connie greets the morning with a profound hangover. She’d passed out and ended up stretched out on the hardwood floor.

A whistling, showered, and dressed Jenny is busy in the kitchen fixing breakfast. As usual, Jenny is dolled-up like a biker babe: all black leather and latex.

Read the clothes and you’ve read the woman. It’s another one of those ways men and women differ. Clothes make the man. Clothes are the woman. The only exceptions to those truisms are the clotheshorse, the so-called GQ, that rare appearance-particular male, and, the tomboy, that rare female who could care less about her appearance.

Jen’s latex is a rubber biker jacket. Sewn on the back of the scooter is a large patch. It’s a pink heart bisected by a silver lightning bolt dripping red blood with the word Heartbreaker in lime green lettering beneath it. The patch looks just like the tattoo adorning Jenny’s left arm. Heartbreaker is slang for a female Marine and the type of jacket Miller’s wearing. Wearing the genuine article says you’re either a Heartbreaker or the toy of one. And at anytime, anyone may challenge you to prove that you’re one or the other.

Her top-grain in-vitro hides consist of a molded halter top with a T-back design, skintight leggings, and combat boots. Look closely and you’ll notice right-off they’re powered livery of military derivation. These skins are MAX. And their Kevlar hex will stop AP (anti-personnel) rounds at point-blank range.

Author’s note: Assume in-vitro bps is black, unless otherwise noted.

Being combat-trained, that nostradamus of hers is heavily-boned with a Playtex-fit. No surprises there. Wouldn’t want those jugs gettin’ in the way at the wrong time. And being a modern-day affectation, the front close of said halter is a hideous oversized zipper, a monstrosity that won’t win any beauty contests. Jenny’s aforementioned jack-boots are genuine Colonial Marine issue. These tall, calf-length buckle-boots are commonly referred to as jay-bees by leathernecks. The U.S. Army wears the identical boot. But the Regulars call ‘em kay-bees. And those fashionable lug bottoms of theirs are Mil-Spec sure-grip. That means, whisper-quiet boots with unsurpassed traction.

Gone is the body makeup the airline requires her to wear while on duty to conceal her tattoos. Company regs are also the reason why she must remove the surgical gold rings (kunts) and the reapers that she can now sport. She’s got a penchant for tattoos and body piercing. But, she eschews scarification and body modification.

Her navel and left nipple each boast a kunt threaded through them. Six kunts pierce each ear pinna. Reapers dangle from both pierced earlobes!

Gunmetal grey, each [Reaper] earring consists of a human skull, crossbones, and skeleton. You can buy facsimiles at Sears, J.C. Penney, and the like. But Jenn’s are authentic. Hers were earned, not bought. You earn them by fighting in major off-world campaigns as a female Recon.

Recons primarily fight and die in operations that officially never happen. They’re covert actions called Twilights. Precious few besides the President, the Joint Chiefs, and the Commandants of the Marine Corps know about these pops.

She did four tours with the Marines as a Recon: two were in the Second Koran War while attached to Scouts of the 1st Armored Cavalry, one was in the Martian Race Wars with a Mobile Infantry platoon, and there was a Twilight with the infamous Kill-Team One in the Rim Wars!

“By the time you get ready, squirt, the food will be done.”

“Have fun devouring my Georgia while I was out doing the old mickey finn?”

“That’s not my style, couz.”

“Bullshit! You’ve done it before.”

“Hardly. I felt you up. That in no way qualified as rape. And I did apologize afterward. I even went to confession for Christ’s sake. Father Witt gave me two hundred Hail Marys and a twelve day fast as penance. Shit chickens! You were just too tasty a morsel to pass up. And that was in spite of you being all filthy and such at the time. But I gave my word it wouldn’t happen again.”

“And if it ever does …”

“Understood. Besides, I’m sure you’re a much better lay when you’re able to actively participate.”

“Don’t hold your breath on that one.”

“You never know. Stranger things have been known to happen during a solstice. And you are one of us demons, now.”

“Well I do know. And it won’t happen today, tonight, or ever. Stick to fucking me in your wet dreams or in VR. And don’t look so surprised. I’ve known about that X-rated noir of yours since day one that Hef rigged it up for you. You jack into it so much and sooo deep that …”

Smith begins to blush. Jenny enjoys seeing her cousin squirm, discussing such private matters.


“It’s like you’re saying that …”

“I’ll be in the dressing room going blind?”

Smith, no longer able to contain her embarrassment, finally turns beet red, much to Jenny’s delight.

“I rather like you as my fantasy detective. You were born to play Honey West, as my VR so well illustrates.”

Jenny places a Mandrake root in front of Smith.

“The damn thing moved!”

“That just means it’s fresh. Eat it and your hangover will disappear. Trust me on this one, squirt. And don’t chew it. Swallow it whole so it goes down live. Fastest results that way.”

Connie swallows the root in one gulp. And sure enough, her hangover disappears, immediately.

“Thanks. By the way. Why do you always call me kid or squirt?”

“’Cause I’m quite a bit older than you.”

“Hardly. This is your second iteration. You short-cycled the first time ‘round. You’re a hundred years older than me. This isn’t significant by faerie standards. Ergo, you’re not quite a bit older than me.”

Jenny gives Connie a nasty squint-stare. And Connie gives it right back.

Such a stainless-steel rat. Quite the analytical engine. You’ve ciphered my age after all. Looks like I owe you a fin.

“I took the liberty of laying out your Badgirl outfit for you upon your bed. ‘Cause when you saddle up in your skins, you look like some slut biker chick out of a fetish catalogue, just like I do in mine. We’ll be matching leather-clad bookends. I also want you to ditch that casting locket of yours for the weekend as further payment for my help.”

A born exhibitionist, Miller loves dressing dagger as much as the staid Connie loathes to. In fact, Miller’s entire personal wardrobe is dagger!

“Read my lips. No fuckin’ way.”

“Just humor me. Put your shit on. Leave the locket here. And hurry up or we’ll be late. The SRB is in a Federal building. Ergo, it’s unlisted. So we can’t teleport there. We’ll have to take the sub-shuttle or catch a streetcar.”

Connie showers, dresses, and reluctantly walks out of her bedroom as a peacocking Darque. Wearing Badgirl’s minimalist costume, a costume that’s even more scantily revealing than Jen’s, means that only strategic portions of Connie’s body are encased in ever-loving MAX. The black color of the flexible exoskeleton is where its moniker of Black MAX comes from. Even without the benefit of fashionable “Fuck Me!” pumps, with 6-inch spiked-heels and keen toes, her get-up still befits a Playboy emeritus like herself. She was a Bunny, you ask? She did a six month stint as a Bunny/bouncer at the St. Louis Playboy Club on Lindell Boulevard.

Underneath her Heartbreaker is a combat-trained corset-brassiere, with prominent “sweater bumps” thanks to the unrelenting pressure of her ever-ready nipples. Like Jen’s Speedo, Connie’s wunder compresses her ample bust, shoving her big knockers up-n-together, further deepening her already impressive cleavage. A wonderbra is overkill with her chest. After all, since when did DD-lightfuls ever need the kind of help a push-up bra gives?

Of course, a proper Victorian lady would have a different point of view. She’d see the necessity for such a contraption no matter how big her gunns were. She’d vigorously point out that this conspicuous piece of tricked-out bondage-ware is a peerless device for showcasing the topography of said creamy-white thumpers bulging in the vice-grip of its embrace. And being a Merry Widow corset, it has a lot of those added masochistic touches which are totally in keeping with her armor’s overall priestess of pain motif. It laces up the back and has hook-n-eye closure, circa the 1890s, in the front. It has shoulder-baring spaghetti straps and plenty of metal stays. The aforementioned rear laces crisscross a healthy gap in the fully-boned armor, a gap that bares a tasty expanse of honeysuckle white. In pain mode the bra laces shut, erasing said gap. A stiff bra with an open-back, that’s constructed akin to a building, is a quintessential expression of the age-old paradox of “exposing while constraining”; a Vampiric credo long before the Victorians existed to adopt it as their own. Backless up-north body armor on a female warrior implies that she’s an assassin, one of those “come hither from nowhere fast, preferably from behind” girls. Being a classic bralette it’s much longer than a regular bra, but it’s much briefer than a full-corset. Thus, it advertises more than enough of her sexy midriff to appease even the greedy porn dogs that hide underneath the slimiest of rocks to escape even the faintest glimmer of sunlight. As her mother, the diehard traditionalist would say, “The end-result of all of this packing and squeezing and slight-of-hand, is that more of less never looked so good!”

The front-hook quarter-length long line bra of Smith and the zip-front sports-bra-style halter top of Miller are slut-specials: legit upper-body armor that’s designed for maximum distractive impact. And it should come as no surprise that both are from the Silhouette Collection of the Rubberware brand.

Rubberware is the erotic, upscale line of MAX from Body Glove: form-fitting leathers that slavishly smooth and shape to the wearer’s body. Rubberware-brand fits so snug it looks like you had to be sewn into the stuff and then only after talcum powder had been liberally applied to all of your curves! PVC, so-called RUBBER, and Patent-Leather, so-called VINYL, are the only brands of MAX that are more explicit fitting or kinkier looking than Rubberware.

What’s that you say in the greediest of your greedy porn dog voices? You want more. Well then, more is what you’re gonna get, more of this less that never looked so good.

In place of Miller’s provocateurs, Smith wears equally form-fitting bikkers. It’s a toss up which style of hip-huggers is more erotic. Both are from Lara Croft’s Lip Service Collection. And being PVC, both lip-readers are seamless and rubber-smooth, looking every bit like liquid rubber that has been poured onto the wearer’s body; lip-readers, yet paradoxically they don’t delineate the wearer’s pussy lips so the crotch is no more revealing than and just as neuter as “regular” panties, thongs, G-strings, etc. They submissively adhere (read: superglue) to every curve thereof, just like their skin-fitting namesake, the neoprene of a scuba diver’s wet suit. Thus, neither leaves much to the imagination. And you wouldn’t want to live on the difference between what keeps ‘em legit and what would make ‘em obscene. Both naughty breeches do the old lift-n-separate, luridly accentuating crotch and [rear] cleavage: oh, we got some extra cleavage down there and back there too! Both tantalize with the expected jaybird down-south of a trademark hip-hugger shape-accentuating waistline, a risqué deliciousness of the French vanilla kind that demands the admiring eye away from hands and feet that can kill. And being hip-huggers, both ride well below the navel: Nobody pulled my pants down, they’re low-riders, and they’re supposed to be worn this way.

Bottomline is, no pun intended, it’s all about the need to conceal and the will to reveal. And it goes without saying that both low-riders come with the disclaimer, “Only Buff Bods Need Apply!”

PVC, Rubberware, and Patent-Leather are what being bound is all about. They’re the ultimate expressions of bondage-and-discipline and the personifications of humiliation-and-degradation. Humans call ‘em “The very pinnacles of fascist fetish-ware”. Infernal call ‘em “Body candy without peer, because they melt in your mind, not in your hands”. And, although the protective index of the body armor brands in question is Mil-Spec, their severe tailoring, optional see-thru mode, and second-skin fit definitely aren’t.

But the coup de grace is Connie’s primo lounge lizards. They’re FSX version jill and Maidenform-brand and were a graduation gift from Sister Elaine. She’ll wear Maidenform as long as she can afford to and Harley-Davidson makes it. These Black MAX jills are considered by many femme shooters to be the ultimate TAZ treaders. No expert-level worth her salty would be caught dead in a TAZ plex without being shod with ‘em. And it takes an expert-level to make this footwear an asset instead of a liability. The clogs are affectionately called buckwheats by Skinheads. It’s a left-handed reference to their wizard-of-odd combo of titts (bulbous toes), razor heels, hard-shell Black MAX uppers, and thick lug soles. Said soles-n-heels are selective sure-grip, in other words, no telling click/clomp of high heels and platform soles unless she wants it that way.

Being Victorian, the clogs are oxford style. Being oxfords, they lace up the front. Being trick, their front laces are quick lace. At the club, she sets her FSX on clear-coat. For this very public outing, she has chosen opaque to keep ‘em guessing.


“It is foolish to expect fidelity from those by whom you have been many times deceived; most especially when they be faeriekind.”

Marcu Tullius Cicero

Comments are closed.