Cindy Masters Dye Detective

Masters is the name. Cindy Masters. I'm a detective. I get $50 a day and expenses, $75 if I can get it.

I was sitting in my office trying to figure out how to get lipstick stains out of a silk tie, or preferably onto one, when I heard the clickity-clack of high heels coming down the hallway toward my door. I looked up to see a silhouette through the frosted glass that resembled two letter B's that hadn't learned that in the missionary position you where supposed to face toward each other.

The door creaked opened and having thoughts about what I'd be facing, I reached slowly for the rod I was packing. She entered my office and walked up to me with her hips swaying in a samba that made Xavier Cugat sound like Spike Jones.

"Miss Masters, I suppose." She asked.

I let go of my rod and tapped a cigarette out the pack. As I lit it, I replied, "You suppose right, dollface."

I took a drag from my Lucky Strike and held out the pack for her, "Care for a fag" I offered. As she nodded okay, her dangling earring clanged like wind chimes. As I lit her smoke, she leaned forward and began to tell me her troubles, as if dames like her should have any cares in the world apart from what dress to wear. As she spoke her the sight of her blood red lips led to a throbbing in my jockey y-fronts, with my clit beating out a rhythm like the Morse code for 'LICK ME".

I leaned back in my chair and placed my feet on the desk, my freshly shined wing-tip shoes glistening like licorice jellybeans. As I listened to her voice, my eyes did a mental strip search and I made a mental note to stop at the Piggly-Wiggly to buy cantaloupes on the way home

"I assume you've heard of the Dextrous Dildo of Denmark," she asked.

"Heard of it? I've had dreams of wearing it and using it" I replied. My nipples hardened and tingled against the ace bandage I used to flatten down my breasts as images of the dildo darted in and out of my mind's eye.

Her voice took on the tone of school teacher. "The dildo has been in our family for years, but last night it disappeared from the safe in our library. Our oriental houseboy has also disappeared and we think he may have stolen it for war profiteers in Japan to hold for ransom"

"Write it up and sell it to Paramount. So what does this have to do with me? I take no sides in these petty little post-war disputes," I spat.

"We need to get that dildo back, and our family is willing to pay for it. It leaves a hole in our legacy that must not remain empty, " she remarked in a voice that purred like 47 Packard sedan.

"Listen sister, I know a lot of holes that need filled. Why didn't you report it to cops?" I shot back.

A dark pallor washed over her face. "The cops mustn't know."

I felt a tightening in my y-fronts at those words. I may be a flatfoot and work just this side of the law, but I don't like to be played a sucker, that is unless the suckee is wearing a jockstrap. "Look here, sweet cheeks. I'm going to give it to you straight and hard. Either you spill the load, or you get yourself another boi."

With that her eyes got all misty and those pretty little red lips all pouty. She pulled a hanky out of her purse and dabbed at her eyes.

"We, we, we got a ransom note. They said if we called the cops, they'd kill daddy"

Now it became as clear as glass filled with mineral oil ready to be used for a rubdown. Daddy, as she was called, ran a chain a lady's clubs in Castro, where the girls could stuff dollar bills into the empty jockstrap pouches of the go-go tomboys who perambulated along the stage and for a half a saw buck more traded in the backroom would give a lap-dance to anything in a skirt, or in my case, a three piece suit.

Feeling my resistance drop to below sea level, I offered a deal. "Yeah, alright all ready, stop your blubbering. It'll be a 100 clams to start."

She got up and walked over to my side of the desk. Reaching between her breasts, she pulled out a roll of twenties; counted out 5 Jacksons then stashed the rest back in their nest. Bending down to kiss me, her hand made its way down to my trousers, where she unzipped them and then stashed the currency in the fly of my y-fronts, as she ran one of her long red nails along the lips of my vagina.

My vision cleared and my head stopped spinning like the beacon top of lighthouse leaving me with a clitoral erection I could pound nails with.

"Here's my card. You can call me at Mayfair 2176" she purred. With that she mamboed back to the door as I stared into space.

Recovering my composure, I planned my next move. If anyone knew the oriental black-market, it would be my acquaintance Won Huong-Lo, He ran a gay Chinese restaurant, gym and rub joint just outside of Chinatown. He had a finger in everything behind the scenes and was so cheap that if there was a quarter in San Francisco bay he'd drop his mother in it and tell her to hold her nose and if she came up covered in seaweed he'd dump back in to get fish for sushi while he went to get rice.

Pausing only long enough to stuff a dufflebag with a jockstrap, trunks and a t-shirt so I could make some contacts in the gym, I headed out and hailed a cab.

----tune in soon for the next chapter in the The Case File of Cindy Masters, Dyke Detective