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Judgement Day
© 2001 by G.  Russell



"Now you can say that I've grown bitter but of this you may be sure.  The rich have got their channels in the bedrooms of the poor.  And there's a mighty judgement coming, but I may be wrong.  You see, you hear these funny voices In the Tower of Song."
-Leonard Cohen.



"How's my arse looking?"

"It's beautiful."

That's true.  Sylvia has a beautiful arse.  It's like a succulent fruit you can't wait to sink your teeth into.  And it's a work of art, too.  It sits on top of the pillars of her sturdy, shapely thighs, a monument to the perfection of the female derriere.

She's naked from the waist down, but there's no worries about the curtain twitchers across the street getting an eyeful of her cunt.  Sylvia never has possessed much in the way of inhibitions.  She struts over to the window, breasts giving a tiny bounce under that tight vest top.  She turns on those big brown eyes, tosses her black tangled mane, and presents her arse to me for closer inspection.

"No pimples?"

No pimple would ever dare mar the smoothness of her proud and perverse derriere.  No bikini or panty line marks the sun ripened cornfield tan of her skin.

"No stretch marks?"

The shaven pouch of her cunt peeks out from between her legs, calling me over to where she leans out of the window, inviting me to unseal those crinkled lips with the wet tip of my tongue.  But the game has strict rules when there's money involved.  She's seeing that rich pig tonight, so it's not for myself that she's catting like a bitch on heat.  She's working herself into the mood, the act.

Look and worship, but no touching.

Her calves flex as she raises her body up onto tiptoe to get a better view of the street below, the traffic and the people passing by.  The soles of her feet are ingrained with dirt picked up from the bare floorboards.

"Can't you stay still for five minutes? I'm composing an ode to your arse."

"Well stick an ode on this, Shakespeare."

She reaches behind and parts her lush globes, those pampered cheeks.  Fair dues, she's generous with her time.  She allows me as much time as I need.  The first taste is with the eye, as the saying goes.  And I'm in no hurry to finish the feast that's being presented to me.  Her bum fuels my imagination.  It guides my hand across the page.  Nothing else matters except for her incredible, welcoming arse.

"Okay.  Finished.  You can come in out of the window before you fall out."

I've contained most of my ejaculate in a turban of tissue wrapped around the head of my cock.  A heavy wad of papier mache cum flies over her shoulder.

She closes the window, trapping the heat and funk of bodily secretions, sweat, dirt, stale cigarettes and cheap perfume in the room with us. "Let's get to work.  Lover boy's waiting."

Watching her pack those buns into jeans so tight that her backside is cleaved in half, I'm overcome with jealousy.  She'll turn heads tonight.  Always does.  She could walk down the street in sackcloth and ashes and men will stop and stare at the faded denim highlights on those round buttocks.  And some of them will look at me and think: There goes one lucky son of a bitch.  The downside is, if we remove the staples from the centrefold and take her arse out of the magazine: Sylvia's not that intelligent.  She hasn't got much in the way of conversation, social graces or morals.  She'll steal your money if you don't give it to her, and she'll take it all if you do.  Shit, I wouldn't want to marry the bitch.

"We're going to be late. " She's chewing gum.  It makes her younger, neurotic, ratty. "He don't like being kept waiting."

We're lucky in that we actually manage to get a taxi that will stop.  Although the cabby's eye is constantly on me in his rear view mirror like he's storing the details for the inevitable crime reconstruction scene that will follow in my wake.  His jaundiced bigotry has already chalked my outline onto the floorboards of his memory.

Or maybe it's the paranoia talking.

Because I have done something terrible.  I've killed someone.  It wasn't as if I forced the girl to take that tablet.  It wasn't a bad batch.  The papers say she had an abnormal allergic reaction.  All her internal organs failed.  The blood flowed out of her like water.  The medical staff couldn't even risk pushing a needle into a vein.  I killed that girl.  Sooner or later, they're going to put the finger on me, the dealer.  And if the law doesn't put me away, Doyle will.  He won't want me talking to the police.

"You two rockerfeller lovebirds have a good time, now. " Goes the cab driver, all sarcastic when he realises I'm the world's worst tipper.  He drives off, still looking at us suspiciously as if to say; what the hell are you two doing in this neck of the woods, then?

The avenue overlooks Regent's Park.  There are nests of CCTV cameras hanging from Victorian styled mock gas lamps.  We walk down the cobbled street, looking up at stately Georgian town houses that start at half a million on the open market.

"Fuck me, Sylvia.  He lives here? I mean, here? So how did it happen- love at first sight in Harrods, was it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Well shut your mouth then."

We go up the front steps to the entrance.  I'm beginning to have serious misgivings about what we are getting ourselves involved in.  About what's going to happen, whatever that is.  It will involve sex, is all that is certain.

"Hey, what's with the big brother act all of a sudden?"

"I just felt like giving you a hug, that's all."

"You don't half choose your moments, you."

She presses the entry phone. "Guess who?" She acts like it's a microphone and she's Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday Mr.  President.

"Sylvia? Come on up."

Her client.  Somewhere up there, behind those large windows: the man who has the wherewithal to purchase women to perform all the nasty, depraved vices no sane woman will ever contemplate.

The locks on the double doors disengage, inviting us into a thickly carpeted entry hall.  I'm half expecting some geezer in an 1860's Austrian military uniform to be sitting behind the wide, circular desk that dominates the foyer.  But the security guard is on his break or on a patrol or whatever, so we manage to get into an elevator without being seen.

"Nervous?" she asks. "Don't be." She lights a cigarette and parks her behind against the brass hand rail. "This is a lot of trust I'm putting in you, yeah? Do whatever he wants, do it nicely.  Show respect for him and his property and stuff.  Okay? Also just for once in your life, try to act sophisticated." She grinds the cigarette into the carpeted floor's plush weave with the stiletto heel of her boot. "And be nice."

The elevator purrs to a halt on the seventh floor and the doors swish open.  There are three other apartments on this floor.  The door we want, number 21, opens and I catch sight of a man in a blue dressing gown.

"Hiya Mr Cunningham." Sylvia says.

Cunnigham! Him? That's Cunningham? He has to be at least fifty.  His body drags the burden of those fifty or so years around badly.  He runs a podgy hand through thinning hair that glistens like an oil slick.  Heavy eyelids beneath bristling eyebrows twitch as he straightens his back and peers at us.  And for a moment he resembles a moulting gorilla, a threadbare gorilla in a dressing gown.

" The young miss finally arrives," he says.  His voice is too fluty and androgynous for his lumpen, primatial bulk. " and is immediately forgiven for her lack of punctuality.  Why, who's this in tow? He's the one we discussed, hmm? Johnny, isn't it?"

"John."

"Charmed, young man.  Come this way, children.  The play room awaits."

He waddles along in front of us, orchestrating us past rooms with their doors politely closed. "The thought, heaven forfend, was beginning to occur that I would have to commence without you two. "

We're ushered into the guest/prostitute's bedroom.  There's a modest sized pine wardrobe for the girls to hang their clothes, a bedside table, and a lamp.  Other than that, the room is a cheerless cell: A pornographer's workshop where you might set up a camera on a tripod, direct it toward a model smiling dutifully with her legs open on the king-size bed: The bed with just the one sheet of crisp, thin linen over the top of a black rubber mattress.

Cunningham concedes to the barest demands an erotic atmosphere requires.  The lights are lowered just enough to create a dusky, intimate mood in which to execute whatever it is he has in mind.  Then he draws down the blinds.

"The medicine.  Can't start without our medicine, can we children?"

I hear Sylvia's throaty laugh; deep, sultry, veraciously deceitful: "Business before pleasure, Mr.  Cunningham."

"Oh.  The money.  Yes." He goes to the bedside table and pulls out a wad of twenties, neatly folded and clipped. "It's all there, as per usual."

Even in this light, she is able to count it and satisfy herself that it is all there while he's rummaging in the drawer for her medicine.

"One exchange for another." He drops a large, oblong pill into the palm of her outstretched hand, and reminds her that it's time for her to go and prepare.

We look at one another, Cunningham and me.  I'm wondering what the pill is for.

"It's a suppository." He says.  Mr mind reader. "Best to keep the business end clean, eh?"

He looks at me as if deciding whether or not I'm worthy of being taken into his confidence. "Johnny, while our mutual friend is attending to the necessities of our business arrangement, perhaps you might care to examine a proposal I have.  A business proposition."

We sit down on the bed.  He leans forward, lowers his huge head and rests his elbows on his naked knees. "What she's doing right now, in the bathroom...  Well, entre nous, there are certain acquaintances of mine; devotees, who will pay highly for the privilege of being able to witness it under more intimate circumstances.  An audience with a discerning and fond eye for the insalubrious, if you catch my drift.  Ah yes.  I see that you do.

He puts a hand on my thigh and squeezes. " We've broached the subject several times, Sylvia and I, but she can be a stubborn filly when she sets her mind against something.  Can you talk to her? Make her see the sense, the business sense, of my proposal? I can assure you, it will be very lucrative. "

His voice then lowers by several octaves. " I know you have concerns of your own, right now.  You could do with the money.  That unfortunate business with the girl?"

She told him that? Jesus, she was going to get me killed for sure with that big mouth of hers. "Look, Mr.  Cunningham.  Nobody regrets it more than me, but it was an accident.  A terrible, tragic accident."

"Undoubtedly.  But if I were in your shoes right now, I would be thinking of departing the country for a while.  A substantial disbursement would help tide you over, wouldn't it? Now.  Business concluded, let us turn to more salacious pursuits.  Why don't you get out of those clothes and join in the fun, hmm? "

Sylvia chooses that moment to re enter the room.  She's naked, with a big grin on her face.  There's an almost imperceptible nod of gratitude from her as she sees me stripping down to my boxers, folding my clothes nicely, respectfully.  She looks so beautiful, so desirable, it hurts.

Flashing her sleek, toned thighs, she shimmies over to our spellbound employer and leads him by his belt over to the armchair.  She undoes the loosely knotted belt with her teeth.  He has the strangest penis.  Erect and protruding from under the overhang of his gut, it's no more than four inches in length, but is as wide as it is long.  The exposed glans sweeps down over the stunted stem.  It's like a fat roll of raw meat that's been sculpted to resemble a deformed mushroom.

Reclining at a respectable distance on the bed, I produce my own relatively normal, modestly proportioned cock from the front of my boxers.  He's got the wherewithal.  Maybe she could be persuaded to do that one thing for him and his friends.

Sylvia moulds her lips around Cunningham's unattractive prick.  Her dark, gypsy eyes swap sublime messages with his.  Her hands busy themselves with the biggest, fattest, pinkest pair of balls I've ever seen.

The last time I watched her suck cock was two years go.  That time with the American.  In his hotel room at the Savoy, we blindfolded, gagged and tied her face down on the bed.  His first touch to her flesh was with a riding crop he'd bought in a specialist sex shop in Soho.  After the beating, he took her brutally, without pity.  A punishment for not having kept her body open while that crop had branded red welts along the backs of her thighs and her buttocks.

Pulling back her hair back from her face so I won't miss any of the action, she swallows Cunningham's fat barrel of a penis down to the root.  Her cheeks hollow as she applies suction.  A muscle in her jaw quivers as she brings her tongue into play.

Cunningham is staring down at her bobbing head with a glazed, faraway light in his face.  Then, after a moment or two during which the spicy wetness of her mouth ingests quietly between his widespread thighs, he grips her head and holds her down.  He tilts his head back and gazes up at the ceiling, a look of kindly disbelief animating his broad face.

She removes her elbows from his thighs and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.  Then she turns to look at me and it's in her eyes; lust and something darker, more urgent, more demanding than lust - A question.  She's seeking my approval: You enjoyed the show? It excited you? Did it make you hard as you watched me deep throat that fat gallipot of a cock and swallow its astringent pollutant?

He mumbles something to the woman I no longer recognise; the houri with smouldering eyes and fiery smile resting her head on his knees.  He informs her, as he strokes her hair, that she has to take care of their guest, their shy young voyeur.  He sends me a gracious smile as his fawning concubine sprawls across the bed, legs akimbo, her tail twitching like she's itching for him to lay his hand across it.

As if to make up for all the bad times, the rancour, the fights, she attends to me with a tenderness and intimacy I had forgotten she possessed.  At first I'm repelled.  Knowing that he, that toad of a man in the corner, is watching us.  But I can't resist her for long.  Her mouth brings me slowly to the boil, keeps me there, turning up the heat by slow degrees until finally my tension is released down her waiting throat.

"Whew I need a drink." She raises her untidy mane from the sticky mess of my crotch.

He comes over, a bottle of cheap scotch miraculously appearing in his hand.  Three glasses are produced from the bedside table, and we clink glasses to her good health.  I catch the glint in his beady eye: and here's to our business proposition.

The three of us.  Lying on the bed.  Her in the middle, a cock in each hand.  We're connected.  His hands folds over mine and he gives me a Masonic handshake down there in the tropical heat between her legs.  We conspire.  We decide on what will happen next, the three of us, without saying a word.

Surrendering to our unspoken wishes, Sylvia moves onto her hip.  Cunningham repositions his bulk behind her, leaving me facing her.  He raises her right thigh, to afford an easier access from behind.  Looking deep into my eyes, she wets her fingers and rims them gently around her arsehole.  A moment later a violent shudder runs right through her as Cunningham forces himself into her anus.  Knowing what the man with the chequebook wants from me, I insinuate my legs between hers, tangling up with his furry thighs, and I push my prick a good way up into the unusually tight channel of her cunt.

He's fucking her quickly so I go slow, not wanting to damage her.  I can feel his cock through the walls of her cunt and he must be feeling mine.  Her breathing quickens, her body shudders, being moved by us alone.  I pull back, which allows him to bury himself fully between those round trembling cheeks he cups in his hands.  As he withdraws, I ram in.

She opens up to me in a way I've never known before.  She focuses her gaze on mine and inadvertently allows me a glimpse into her psyche.  I've been betrayed.  But I understand.  And my affection for the gorgeous, delinquent trollop sandwiched between us, sharing herself with us, does not waver because of it.

Later, sitting in the back of the cab, she turns to me and says: "I won't do it, you know; what he wants me to do.  Not for all the money there is.  You have to draw the line somewhere. "

"Yeah, I know.  Nobody will make you do anything you don't want to do."

The car is waiting for us as we get out of the taxi.  I feel her grip on my arm, her breath on my cheek. "I'm sorry, John.  I had no choice, they said they would hurt me if...and they ..  just want to talk to you."

Oh shit.  It's judgement day.

I've already seen her confession.  Back there, with Cunningham.  Of course, she had no choice.  Even without her help, without her sanctuary, Doyle would have tracked me down eventually.

"C'mon, stop crying.  That's all they want to do -just have a chat " I give her a last hug.  In situations like this, it's better to lie.

"Listen, I've been thinking." I tell her quickly. "I've got this Aunt.  She lives on her own in a big old house down near Brighton.  She runs a flower shop.  Now you call her, okay? The number's in my filofax.  You tell her you're a good friend of mine.  I know she'll love to have you helping out in the shop."

"Me? Work in a florist? Oh John, you say the stupidest, craziest things sometimes."

The car doors open and four men get out.  One of them, unmistakably, is Doyle.  The man himself.  They must want me put away very badly.

Sylvia dries her eyes with one of Cunningham's silk handkerchiefs she had pilfered on the way out. "So, call me later to let me know you're okay, huh?"

"Yeah, I'll call you."

"And don't do anything stupid. Okay?"

"Who me? You take care of yourself, yeah?"

Then, as Doyle and his heavies fan out across the street and start moving in toward me, I pursue the only option left open to me under the circumstances.

I run.

"Judgement Day" © sept 2001 G.Russell

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