Note- This is an alternative history tale featuring Christie as a thirty-year-old Flapper in the roaring twenties who becomes much sought after as a private investigator thanks to the success of her first, and only, novel. Embracing the free age, she also believes in free love for women. Kudos to Christie, one of the most revered English crime authors of all time.
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Chapter One.
Enter Agatha.
London, 1923.
"Sex, as a word, had not been mentioned out loud in my young days, but there had been plenty of it. Maybe not talked about so much, but enjoyed far more than nowadays. Though usually labelled 'Sin,' I can't help feeling that that was preferable to what it seems nowadays. A taboo subject."
Agatha Christie lit a cigarette and put it into the end of her black holder. She bent her left leg at the knee and laid back on the bed, naked as the day she was born. She leered at Thompson as he stood with his back to her as he dressed. He was a fine specimen of masculinity and rather well-hung.
He was twenty-six and at the peak of his physical prowess. A rugged type an inch under six foot, with a broad chest. He had a thick head of dark hair, and deep, chocolate-brown eyes to match. Not only did he have a superb upper body, but he also had strong legs, a narrow waist, and tight buttocks, which Agatha now ogled unashamedly. His athletic form was the result of two hard years serving in the British Indian Army.
"Sex was constantly on my mind back in India. Didn't see much skirt in Lahore." Answered Agatha's very own Don Juan and chauffeur/manservant.
He turned to face her in the rather small bedroom of her Smithfield flat. Bare from the waist down. with only his shirt on over his upper body, the amorous author stared directly at his crotch, the virile source of his unquestionable masculinity. Even in its dormant state, his dick was phenomenal. All eight inches of smooth man-meat, which could rise to the occasion at very short notice. A fact that the grateful Agatha could attest to. Seeing as he had just ravished her moments earlier resulting in her achieving not one, but two sublime orgasms. They had made love head to cunt, and head to cock. Face-to-face, and dog fashion.
"I can well imagine. I shall do my very best to rehabilitate you every chance I get."
The tall female rose from her bed and stretched. Born on December 21, 1890, the slender creature was now thirty-three years of age. Standing at five feet seven inches tall, the long-legged vamp had outstanding 32D breasts, with wide hips separated by a thin waist. With a set of pins that seemed to go on forever, she always looked elegant in all kinds of outfits. Her big eyes were hazel and her short-cut hair was a reddish-blonde. Because of her colouring, her skin was pale but unblemished. She was not necessarily beautiful in the classical sense, but extremely sexy looking.
"Looks like it will be a nice day."
The redhead crossed to the large window and gazed at the tree-lined square outside. She exhaled blue smoke into the warm air of the room as Thompson came up behind her. She sighed, still dreamily half asleep as he hugged her. She backed into his groin, relishing the feel of his member, all pushy and manly in her bum crack.
"Was that the doorbell?"
Agatha tilted her head to try to catch the sound.
"Yes. I do hear it. I'll go."
Left alone to her ablutions, she reflected on her unique past. Christie had been born into a wealthy upper-middle-class family in Torquay, Devon, and was largely home-schooled. Being an avid reader of fiction, she tried her hand at writing. She was initially unsuccessful, with six consecutive rejections. But this changed in 1920 when The Mysterious Affair at Styles, featuring detective Hercule Poirot, was published. Her first husband was Archibald Christie; they married in 1914, divorcing just two years later. When her Grandfather died in 1869, he left Agatha's Mother £2,000, which she used to buy the leasehold of a villa in Torquay named Ashfield. It was here that her third and last child, Agatha, was born. By 1901, her Father Fred had died from pneumonia and chronic kidney disease. Thus leaving Christie with a handsome legacy that she used to travel the world and later marry. After the collapse of her marriage, she found solace in the new decade.
"Such fun."
The Roaring Twenties. The new decade was now in a period of economic prosperity with a distinctive cultural edge in the United States and Europe. With an emphasis on social, artistic, and cultural dynamism. Jazz blossomed, and the 'Flapper' redefined the modern look for British and American women.
The term Flapper originated in Great Britain, where there was a short fad among young women to wear rubber galoshes (an overshoe worn in the rain or snow) left open to flap when they walked. The name stuck, and throughout the United States and Europe Flapper was the name given to liberated young women.
Christie loved it. She enjoyed drinking and smoking, went out unaccompanied, and threw away her corsets in favour of the looser, shorter underwear and dresses that allowed ladies the movement needed to dance to the new music of the Jazz Age. Her book had brought in welcome monies, and with it, a curious influx of desperate people requiring her help.
x
That same evening, Agatha and her chaperone attended a performance of Carmen by Georges Bizet at Her Majesty's Theatre in Haymarket. She had spent the best part of the afternoon deciding what to wear before settling on a Veronique green dress with intricately beaded black mesh, black iridescent sequins, and small black beads wrought in flourishing swirls and spirals. The emerald green knit lining of this green and black dress created a very radiant effect. The sleeveless, V-neck design showed her off with a modest touch, while the curve-hugging fit and jagged edge dripping with fringe were designed to turn every head, She wore a tight-fitting headpiece with jewellery and long-sleeved black gloves.
"Darling, you look divine."
Looking immaculate in his formal evening wear of top hat and tailcoat was the Honourable Edward Gathorne-Hardy. The youngest son of Gathorne Gathorne-Hardy, the 3rd Earl of Cranbrook, the wealthy traveller, and socialite, had carved a successful career as an antique and art dealer. Still a youthful and fit twenty-four-year-old, he was one of the country's most eligible bachelors. The well-dressed gentleman wore a starched white shirt with pleated yokes, with bow tie, and white wing collars. He wore his trousers high at the waist and his shoes were highly polished.
"You too, my dear."
As they made their way inside, they were ushered down a special hallway to the patron's boxes. The excited redhead was delighted to discover they had perhaps the best box in the theatre. Agatha put her arm in his as they followed the ushers to their prime seats. They were at the right end of the box, further from the stage, but with the best viewing angle. The opera started just as they were seated. They visited the Patron's bar after the second act, and George ordered two glasses of champagne.
"George, you devil. You know that bubbly goes straight to my head."
"I'm well aware, you ravishing beauty. I plan to have my wicked way with you one way or another."
She looked at him with seductive eyes and took a generous gulp of champers.
"Well, you shan't get any argument from me, I can assure you."
The lights dimmed, indicating the third act was about to begin. They returned to their private box and George deliberately moved his chair closer to Agatha's.
He put a hand on her knee, sliding it up slowly but assuredly up her left thigh. Agatha looked at her amorous escort and grabbed his hand in her glove. But rather than brush him off, the wanton vixen placed it further inside her thigh, closer to her sex beneath the dress. She pressed on his hand hard and moaned as together they massaged her mons. In the dark interior of the theatre, nobody saw George daringly draw her dress up her legs, baring her silk stockings inch by inch. Agatha sighed as the brazen fellow used just his fingertips to brush back and forth inside her upper thighs.
"George, behave yourself!"
Ignoring her, the aroused gentleman stroked the bare flesh of her leg just where her garter ended and before her bloomers stretched out over her mons. He shifted in his seat and cupped her mound, feeling and lusting after her heated muff therein.
He did not let up as the famous author sighed and squirmed in her seat. He withdrew his hand then took hers and moved it to his rampant erection.
"Not here, my sweet. There will be plenty of time for you when we get you back to my flat."
A member of the audience suddenly had a coughing fit and both would-be lovers sat up in their chairs. The end of the opera could not come soon enough and the audience stood to applaud.
"Well darling," she said as he kept fondling her bottom as she lifted an arm to hail her chauffeur. "We'd best get you home toot suite. Lest you intend to have me in the street."
Agatha and George hurried out to her automobile, a brand new Rolls Royce Silver Ghost.
"Madam?"
"Home, Thompson. And don't spare the horses."
"Very well."
As the car sped off in the direction of Smithfield, the couple got cozy in the plush back seats. George immediately leaned in and locked lips and tongue with Agatha who reacted in kind and reached out to place a hand in his lap. She moaned in pleasure as his hand slid her knee and up her thigh. Her breathing started to quicken as they felt the car stop in traffic. George had now slid between her thighs and pulled the hem of her dress up to her midriff. Agatha slid down along the back seat as busy fingers found the waistband of her bloomers. They were dragged down to her shoes and then discarded as if he were throwing away a used napkin.
"Oh, my word!" She sighed as her lover stroked her mons and probed the entrance of her cunny.
When they took off again, Agatha kicked and moaned as Thompson rode fast and hard, weaving between cars in a way that excited the novelist. The speed of the motor, plus the amorous foreplay of the frustrated George, made for the most thrilling adventure. The vibrations of the car motoring up through the streets meant her lover held her in his firm grip. As he rested on his haunches, he raised her lower body from the seat so that her sopping muff met his animated lips. She lifted her left leg up and onto the back of the seat, putting the other leg on the floor so she was spread wide for him. With her legs anchored against, George constantly manipulated her soft labia and rubbed over her clit firmly which sent delicious vibrations of pleasure through her. She squealed loudly, oblivious to the driver who remained aloof and uninterested.
"There he is!"
