Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,56
corset that pinched her waist and the tight girdle that squeezed her hips and gartered her seamed hose. She tottered on six-inch-high heels, as her mistress scolded her for some imagined offense. Her mistress looked very stern in her black corselet and spike-heeled boots, and it was only the flip of a page before she was punishing her clumsy maid.
There was a wall-length mirror, so Kristi could watch herself being tied across a coffee table. Her ankles were tied to the table legs at one end, her wrists bound to the legs at the other end, forcing her to support her weight with her flexed legs and arms. Another rope secured her waist to the tabletop, and a leather gag stifled her pleas. Kristi wriggled in helpless pain in her cramped position, rolling her eyes and whimpering through the leather strap. Her thighs were spread wide by her bondage, and she flushed as she saw her mistress smiling at the dampening crotch of her girdle. Her cunt was growing hotter and wetter the harder she struggled...
Chelsea awoke with the pulse of her orgasm. After a moment she decided that, in the morning, she would try to search out the photo set and make a notation. She had made hundreds of such notations.
Her secretary told her, “Your grandfather phoned while you were at lunch.”
“What?” Chelsea studied the memo. “Oh, that has to be Morrie.”
“Said he has some new etchings to show you. Your grandfather is quite the kidder.”
“He’s a randy old goat. I’ll see what he wants.”
Chelsea returned the call from her office. Morrie’s answering machine said that Mr Steinman was at work in the darkroom just now and to please leave a message and number at the tone. Chelsea started to speak, and Steinman picked up the phone.
“Hey, doll! Got something for you.”
“Like what?”
“Nightseed X-Press. The porno mag you showed me.”
“Yes?”
“Most of them aren’t really models. Just hookers doing a trick in front of a camera. I had a friend ask around. Discreetly. Found a girl who says she did some work for Nightseed about a year ago, gave me the address.”
“Did she say anything about Kristi Lane?”
“The bimbo’s maybe eighteen. She wouldn’t know Kristi Lane from Harpo Marx. No phone number, but it’s a loft not far from here. Want I should check it out?”
“I can do that.”
“I don’t think so. Not a job for a lady. Why don’t you come by here sometime after five, and I’ll make a full report. I got some photos you might like to see as well.”
“All right. I’ll come by after work.”
Chelsea hung up and opened her shoulder bag. Yes, the can of Mace was right on top.
Steinman’s studio was a second-floor walk-up above a closed-down artists’ supply shop a few blocks from the bar where they’d met. The stencil on the frosted glass read Morris Steinman Photography, and Chelsea tried to imagine what sort of business he might attract.
The door was unlocked, and the secretary’s desk had probably been vacant since Kennedy’s inauguration. It was going on six, so Chelsea rapped on the glass and walked inside. The place was surprisingly neat, if a bit faded, and the wastebasket contained only a beer can. A row of filing cabinets had been recently dusted.
Chelsea let herself into the studio beyond the front office. She smelled coffee. There was a green davenport, a refrigerator, a hot plate, and an electric percolator, which was steaming slightly. There was a large empty room with a lot of backdrops and lighting stands and camera tripods. In the back there was a darkroom with a red light glowing above the DO NOT ENTER sign on the door. As she watched, the light winked out.
“Morrie?” Chelsea crossed the darkroom. “It’s Chelsea Gayle.” The door of the darkroom slowly opened. Morrie Steinman shuffled out into the studio. He was holding a still-damp print, but he wasn’t looking at it or at Chelsea. His face was a pasty mask, his eyes staring and unfocused. Steinman stumbled past Chelsea, moving dreamily toward the couch. He was a puppet whose strings were breaking, one by one. By the time he collapsed onto the davenport, there were no more strings to break.
Chelsea pried the photograph from his stiff fingers. Blood was trickling from beneath the frayed sleeve of his shirt, staining the four-by-five print as she tore it free. The photo was smeared, but it was a good pose of Kristi Lane in a tight sweater with a bit of stocking-top laid bare