The Amorous Agatha Christie 02

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 is also a believer in free love for women. Kudos to Christie who is undoubtedly one of the most revered English crime authors of all time.

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Chapter Four.

The 43 Club.

London, 1923.

It was the dawn of a new era. The time of Flappers, cocktails, frivolity, and the Charleston.

In the 1920s, London's toes were tapping to the new sound of jazz. Everybody wanted to dance, nobody wanted to sleep, and nightclubs were mushrooming around the city's West End. Deep in the heart of Soho, at 43 Gerrard Street, was a small, intimate nightspot known simply as the '43'. Its proprietor, a neat little woman with charming manners, ran a string of other clubs besides. The Silver Slipper in Regent Street and the Manhattan in Denman Street, while her eldest daughter oversaw the Little Club in Golden Square as well as the Riviera in Maidenhead. Little wonder Kate 'Ma' Meyrick was known as the Queen of Nightclubs.

Statesmen and stage stars, peers and princes, millionaires and movie moguls, not to mention a fair share of rakes and rascals, all came to the '43' to soak up Soho's bohemian atmosphere, foxtrot with the club's pretty dance hostesses, hear Teddy Brown's band, and quaff champagne into the small hours. A change in the Licensing Act stated that drinks could be served until 12.30 a.m. if accompanied by food. Despite being a tiny wisp of a woman, Ma kept her eye on guests as they entered her 80-capacity venue to refuse entry to anyone whom she found suspicious.

It was this illegal late-night tippling that gained Mrs. Meyrick notoriety as well as fame. The Home Secretary William Joynson-Hicks was waging a moral crusade against nightclubs. Police raids aiming to catch those flouting licensing laws were not uncommon at the '43', and the resulting prosecutions necessitated the closure and reopening of clubs under new names. The '43' immediately attracted an array of celebrity customers from the artistic Café Royal crowd to European royalty. Prince Christopher of Greece, Joseph Conrad, Prince Carol of Romania, celebrated jockey Steve Donoghue, 'Loughie', Lord Loughborough, and the dukes of Manchester, Leeds, and Norfolk. Millionaire Jimmy White arrived one evening with six Daimlers in his wake, the cars disgorging twenty-five chorus girls and White supplying the club's patrons with champagne all evening to the tune of 400 pounds sterling. Once carrying a tray of cocktails back from the bar, Rudolph Valentino was mistaken for a waiter. Prince Nicholas of Romania and Tallulah Bankhead once danced with such enthusiasm they cracked a pane.

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Agatha Christie fit the stereotype of the 20s flapper to a T, chasing a lifestyle that would have been unthinkable just twenty years before. She drank alcohol, smoked cigarettes, and dabbled in bohemianism. She cut her hair short, wore dresses that showed off her fashionably slender figure, used daring slang, and dated multiple men whilst single. Standing at five feet seven inches tall, her long legs went all the way up to her bum where they got cheeky. She had superb 32D breasts, with wide hips separated by a thin waist. Her big eyes were hazel and her short-cut hair was a reddish-blonde. Because of her colouring, her skin was pale but unblemished.

For this special occasion, Agatha had gone for a real siren look. Her bold red dress captured the deco style superbly giving her a truly elegant look. The dress features a soft red tulle overlay with a delicate pattern of shimmering red sequins and scrawls of beads around the entire dress. There was a layer of red tassels around the hem which came down to knee height. Her long red gloves and headpiece were the perfect accessories to complement her daring look. Wrapped tightly around her head it had rhinestones set in a silver-toned feather motif with a large crystal centre embellished by tiny faux ivory pearls.

Dressed in a black tuxedo and bowtie, her escort was Major Timothy Trent, who had seen active service in the Great War with the East Surrey Regiment. Born in 1883, he was a widower and retired. And smitten something rotten with the amorous crime writer. On the day in question, he'd succeeded in bringing Agatha to a screaming climax in the big soft bed in her flat. Their lovemaking had been most energetic, and the virile chap had yet again shown the thirty-three-year-old redhead his prowess in bed.

"Sounds like quite the party," observed the Major as they walked along the pavement outside of the club.

The lively music could already be heard outside as they approached the front entrance. They had arrived at the club at a fashionable late hour, and once inside they surveyed the bustling scene. Jazz music blared out in the crowded room played by five besuited musicians on a low stage. Numerous guests milled around in pairs and groups under a huge twinkling chandelier that hung down in the middle of the room. Waiters busied themselves serving champagne as colourful streamers and party balloons flew about. Agatha looked around and noted several closed doors leading off from the main room, each seemingly guarded by some flunkies.

"What are you drinking?"

The Major was no stranger to wealth and grandeur. He had a fine house and belonged to a Gentleman's exclusive club.

"I'll have a horse's neck."

As the Major went to fetch drinks, Agatha felt a presence behind her and turned to face Ma Meyrick herself. She smiled and nodded to Agatha, a glass of champagne in one hand and a smoke in the other.

"Good evening, my dear. And welcome to the club."

Kate was a picture of pure elegance in a long black and gold dress that reached the floor. The gold sequins encased by silver beads shimmered under the chandelier above. She wore a black headband with an arrangement of black gems and beads that also included an attached large black feather.

"How do you do? So glad you were able to come."

"Yes, thank you. It's a super place."

"You're too kind. Agatha, I've heard so much about you. And I loved your book. The Mysterious Affair at Styles, featuring detective Hercule Poirot. Super fun. Are you writing another?"

"Still simmering. I dismissed the idea of continuing with Poirot as a character. I didn't see a market for a chocolate-fixated Belgian with a waxed moustache. Quite dull."

"Shame. Ah, here's the Major."

"Your club is magnificent. You really know how to throw a party."

"Thank you. What a couple you two make, I must say. And look. Here's Coco."

Agatha and her escort turned to see a black envelope heading their way.

"My dears. This is Coco Chanel, fresh from Gay Paree. This is Agatha Christie, my dear. Our famed crime author."

The superior-looking fashion designer inhaled a lungful of smoke and idly flicked ash from her thin cigarette holder. Apart from a single string of pearls, the slim brunette was dressed all in black. She looked snazzy and sophisticated and she knew it.

"Before me, no one would 'ave dared to dress in black. A black so deep, so noble that once seen, it stays in the memory forever."

"Indeed," agreed Christie as she looked the slender Frenchwoman up and down.

Her little black dress was really a chemise with long sleeves made of Crêpe de Chine with delicate pleats in a V-shape on the slightly bloused top and skirt. Long black gloves, black shoes, and a black turban completed the look. She reeked of her famed Number Five perfume as she curled her upper lip.

"It was een '20 as I recall, when I contemplated the auditorium at the Opera from the back of a box. All those reds, those greens, those electric blues made me feel ill. These colours. Ugh! C'est impossible. These women I vowed, weel bloody well dress in black if I 'ave my way."

"Oh, I so agree, Mademoiselle Coco. And this must be Igor."

"Igor Fyodorovich Stravinsky, at your service."

The Russian-born composer of such work as The Rite of Spring bowed at the waist in front of Ma Meyrick and Agatha. He appeared rather bored behind small-rimmed spectacles and his thin moustache seemed a bad idea.

"It was Misia Sert who introduced us in Paris in May of '20. I agreed to underwrite the revival of Rite of Spring with a new choreography by Léonide Massine."

Coco looked about the crowded room with disinterest and sucked in her smoke.

"We've been lovers ever since. I 'ave a thing for White Russians. Shall we see you both in the Green Room?"

Stravinsky gave them a wry smile as the odd couple tottered off. Agatha raised a quizzical brow and turned to Meyrick.

"Green Room, Ma?"

The hostess put her index finger to her red lips and winked.

"It's just one of my special playrooms for after-hours fun. If you're good, I may let you in."

"Dah-ling! A mah-velous party! See you in the Green Room?"

Ma waved to what seemed to be a tornado pass by in bright blue chiffon.

"That's Tallulah Bankhead from Hollywood! I hear she's in London to appear onstage with Du Maurier."

Tallulah was just as much a personality as an actress. She had energy, and beauty, with blue eyes, a voluptuous mouth, honey-coloured hair that fell in waves to her shoulder, and sad-looking eyes. Sir Gerald du Maurier, father of authoress Daphne du Maurier, and one of Great Britain's artistic leaders in the tradition of actor/managers at the turn of the century had cast her in 'The Dancers' which had become an instant success with theatergoers. Women copied her fashions, affected her manner, and even imitated her husky voice.

"Gosh. Who's that?"

Agatha nodded in the direction of a chap in his mid-twenties with two attractive females by his side.

"That, my darling is Alec Waugh. He writes as well. He's single, and much sought after. But he's so reserved."

"And his dates?"

The one on his right was wearing a white shimmering dress, with gold beads decorating the bodice and gold body glitter across her very noticeable cleavage in the plunging neckline. Her gold headband made her already longish face seem even longer, and her peachy lipstick plumped up her thinnish lips.

"That's Babe Plunket. She is the granddaughter of the Earl of Kellie. And the other is Elizabeth Ponsonby. The daughter of Arthur Ponsonby, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. They are cousins. They're here all the time. Both are prominent members of the so-called Bright Young Things. Well-connected socialites who are out for a good time, all the time. All of the members are very wealthy people, and they are happy to have their private lives in the spotlight. To be part of this society, you must know all of the society leaders, you need to be rich, and connected to their businesses and their normal lives. Bless them and their fat wallets! Do excuse me."

Ma wandered off in the direction of the low stage.

"Enjoying yourself, darling?" asked Timothy.

"So far. Seems just like most other parties though."

"Hang on."

"Ladies and gentlemen. I wish to announce a special guest. Someone very exciting has agreed to perform for us tonight. It gives me great pleasure to introduce one of the most unique and sexiest performers I've ever seen. She's only nineteen and has just arrived from America in recent weeks. Give it up for Josephine Baker from Paree!"

"Ruddy Nora, cupcake! That girl is stark bollock naked!"

The band began to play the Charleston as the vivacious exotic dancer bounced onto the stage by the musicians. All eyes were on the black-skinned girl with the beaming smile and slicked-back hair. Despite the Major's exclamation, Baker did have a form of costume on.

Although topless she had a low-slung belt around her trim waist with sixteen rubber bananas hanging from it. Along with her matching pearl necklaces and jewels, the risqué outfit Baker brilliantly manipulated the entire audience. She crossed her eyes, waved her arms, swayed her hips, poked out her backside, and easily seduced one and all. The skirt's phallic appendages presented Baker as a sex object, highlighting her audacious prancing, and desirable semi-naked body.

"I've never seen anything like it. So raw. So primitive."

Agatha nodded in agreement with her date. The feisty woman welcomed the age of free love and embraced the concept of lovemaking without formal ties or marriage. With men or women. And the almond-eyed dancer quite turned Christie's head.

The room crackled with sexual tension. Guests drank, canoodled, and eventually started kissing, moving from one to another. What had started as a wild bohemian party was now something racier. What with the heady drink and all the gaiety, the amorous redhead felt terribly horny.

"Timothy. Let's go somewhere quieter. Please?" she whispered, with a hint of desperation in her educated voice.

The Major nodded and noted one of the rooms had been left unattended as the besuited flunkie became absorbed with ogling Baker's bouncing boobs. They slinked off to the closed door and both glanced back at the merriment before he led her into the room, As they adjusted their eyes to the dim interior, the sounds of the party faded as he closed the door.

Without further ado the Major pushed Agatha back into the wall, forcing his mouth over hers. She held the back of his neck in her gloved hands as they French kissed, eagerly pushing her tongue between his lips. The back of her dress was cut low and Timothy's hands came up behind her so that he could caress her shoulder blades. Agatha's lips trembled as her mouth devoured his so that she tasted his smoky breath.

She clung to him tightly as the wetness of his lips on hers acted like a drug and left her floating. He pulled her slender body to his pressing his chest against her bosom. is, her hands diving into his hair. Her fingers gripped the soft waves, holding him to her. Her soft mouth melted under his, and her sighs of delight transferred to his.

"Remove them," she uttered as he expertly lifted the hem of her dress to tug her undergarments down her thighs.

"These legs are divine," he purred as he grabbed her thighs and kneaded the soft flesh in both hands.

He moved closer still and beneath his trousers she felt his erection all pushy and stiff against her loins. The Major slipped inside her low-cut neckline and grabbed her left breast. Agatha felt a warm flush course through her and she could feel a wetness between her thighs as a result. She crushed her body to his, relishing his hard cock hard against her front.

Now, he felt the rounded firmness of her bare nether cheeks, and his busy fingers stroked the hot moistness of her heated sex. A wave of sweet torment rippled through the aroused redhead as he probed her slippery labia. Agatha went weak in the knees as she stepped out of her discarded bloomers.

"Heavens! So nice."

He slipped a third finger inside her, while he massaged her clitoris with his thumb.

She dug her fingers into his arms as he frantically frigged her on the spot. As he sawed his hand on and out, Agatha managed to unbutton his fly, exploring the insides of his tumescent organ. They moved in tandem. both masturbating the other. She tossed her head back as spasmodic twitches in her loins signaled her release. She held onto his iron-hard shaft as he fingered her more vigorously.

it was almost too much to bear but before either of them reached a climax, a husky voice came from the other side of the room.

"It's customary for those in the Green Room to be without any clothes on."

Agatha and the Major looked up in surprise at the sound of the husky female voice as they both realised that they were not alone in the dark room. As they quickly adjusted their clothing their eyes began to adjust to the light of hundreds of candles that now cast better light. The room was considerably larger than they first thought, huddled close together in the shadow of the door where they had entered.

Two naked figures were sprawled in the middle of an oversized bed. One was Tallulah, gloriously naked with her right leg bent at the knee to display her ginger bush. Propped up by several pillows, the other person looked up without a word. His lean hard body was pale and showed no colour. His dark hair was swept back from his face giving him an almost vulnerable look with those sad mournful eyes and highly kissable lips.

In the hand of the wanton actress was his upright dick. Straight as a policeman's truncheon with a fat purplish helmet that shone with the spit of the smiling hussy. His circumcised shaft appeared darker than the rest of him, with a livid network of engorged veins along the considerable length. And his testicles resembled two ripe plums. Dark, juicy, and extremely large.

"I don't believe it," cried Christie with wide-staring eyes. "It's really him! The Sheik himself. Rudolph Valentino!"

The global phenomenon that was Rudolph Valentino began his film career in 1917, and his handsome looks made him Hollywood's first male sex symbol. As an Italian immigrant who came to America in 1913, Valentino worked various mediocre jobs, including working as a gardener, dishwasher, waiter, and even a gigolo to an older woman before moving to Hollywood. His first film appearance was in Alimony and he soon became known as an actor who could play a Latin villain. He did minor roles before landing his first leading performance in the 1921 film The Four Horsemen and the Apocalypse. He danced the tango in a scene in the film, which turned him into a heartthrob overnight.

"Are you here to partake of the flesh? Or are you a pair of voyeurs? The Green Room is not for the half-hearted. Either you join in or stay the hell away. This is no holiday."

Bankhead spoke in between taking gulps of the renowned Italian Stallion's big dick.

"I invited them. They may choose to join in or leave."

Ma Meyrick exhaled blue smoke as she viewed proceedings from a plush armchair. Agatha screwed her eyes as she made out the figure in the continuous flickering candlelight. Now, the crime writer looked around to see two other beds. Both are occupied by several naked men and women.

On one, Coco Chanel was fucking Stravinsky in the asshole with a strap-on dildo that was attached to her waist by a black belt. She made sweeping strokes up from behind the successful composer, driving the fake cock deep inside his lubed-up anal passage. He still had his spectacles on with the curious addition of a baby's dummy in his drooling mouth! What a colossal pervert!

"Mama! Mama! Fuck my sorry bottom, Mama!" he sobbed in fake anguish.

The Major shook his head as he watched Babe Plunket being fucked by Alec Waugh doggy style as Elizabeth Ponsonby lay beneath them. Her face was level with his ball sack which she slathered with her tongue, and her cunt was duly licked out by the moaning Plunket whose face was buried in her snatch. Agatha and her escort looked at each other and shrugged.

"Well I'm game if you are," said Timothy as he she his jacket and began to loosen his bowtie."

"No, no, no," said Tallulah in her honeyed voice. "If you mean to stay, you must take other partners. No sense in making out together. Where's the sport in that?"

"True indeed. Agatha, my dear. We have a choice of concubines gathered for our female guests. Why don't you take one?"

Ma clapped her hands and from the shadows came three tall fellows in black eye masks and naught else. The astonished redhead looked at all three as they lined up side by side. The first was a fair-haired chap over six feet in height who sported large biceps and muscular buttocks. He had a rigid erection that swayed and bobbed in front of him.

Another with dark brown hair stood beside him with a firmed-up frame and a boner that looked capable of boring holes through walls. He was perfection and he knew it. The last one was a black-skinned African who stood with his hands on his narrow hips. He exuded a raw masculinity and his ebony cock looked to be nine inches in length, as thick as her wrist with a flared glans that already shone with his pre-cum.