It was just getting down to winter, with the last of the dead leaves blustering about along the deserted streets. Here and there a young girl’s face would pop out of a shop doorway, scanning for signs of a slowing car which might hold the promise of a punter, and enough money for another quick hit before the weekend really got underway.
Thursday night’s were always like this, a slight lull in the storm before the main punters began coming down from Scotland and the north, for their football and rugby. Then, the nearby pubs would fill to the sound of Brummie or Gorbald accents, pubs with such names as ‘Flying Scotsman’, ‘Dunredin’, ‘The Caledonian’.
Claire’s starting off spot was normally the ‘Scotsman’. Deep inside the spit and sawdust bowels of this time- honoured establishment she could make out the swaying motions of the strip, pole and lap dancers through the frosted glass of the side windows, and the occasional open flap of the doorway as the shadowy outlines of men passed back and forth between the street and the satanic invocation that took place on the altar that passed for a miniature stage.
Whores, like junkies and Freemasons, are creatures of habit, and seek to preserve their rituals, and here was the starting point for Claire.
Here she would drag her shivering body out whenever she came to, and from wherever she had come to, and, sharpening her wits would commence her lookout for the men she would get herself picked up by.
The Scottish guys, she had found, were generally the most naïve. Often she could lure these to an isolated spot where Big Looey, or one of her other associates, would arrange for a rendezvous. The punter would then be subjected to a heavy beating and robbery.
Either that, or she would try and get enough money, say, sixty quid, up front, and then disappear round the corner with an excuse to ‘look after the baby’. She would be back in a minute, though. The last time she had done that, though, the irate punter had stormed all night long round the block of flats into which she had taken refuge. The punter, a six foot six Scottish rugby afficianado had shrieked his outrage all through the early hours of the morning. Even the fellow junkies in the flat where she had lodged had grown restless at this, in case, through some feet of incredible intuition, the punter should suddenly have become able to discern which flat exactly she had disappeared into.
All night the paranoia had grown, and the man’s indecipherable utterances had increased in volume as he stormed along the outside edge of their fortress, then grown fainter again as he vanished round the back side of the block, allowing a temporary respite for the inhabitants within- not to mention for all the other tenants in the block. But their relief was to be all-too short lived, with the sound of his curses increasing again as he came back round the side of the building.
As the night wore on, and as the quantity of crack which Claire had been able to purchase with his money diminished, it was under one of the beds that Claire began to seek a place of hiding, just in case this demon from hell should suddenly break into the flat to seek her out and exact his dreadful revenge. Eventually the gear ran out, and in the come-down that is every smoker’s worst nightmare Claire realised that she hadn’t accounted for enough to get some smack. She looked around the room at the small collection of deep soul friends that she had been treating to a decent smoke not twenty minutes before, but now that she needed something back from them there was suddenly a dearth of eye-contact. No, nobody could help her out. Everyone was broke. In the pregnant silence that ensued Claire realised that it was going to be down to herself to get herself sufficiently together to get back down to the Cross, to ‘The Scotsman’ if necessary, to get some more readies together. She cursed herself, for having chiselled the punter, for having blown all the money on crack, for not having put something aside for the come-down, for the brown that would be the beautifully soft parachute which would gossamer-like allow her to drift back to the ground with barely a bump.
But right now she was in a plane that had just been shot down by the German anti-aircraft batteries, and was coming down over the rooftops really fast, faster even. As she looked over the rim of the wings, she could see the faces, even, of those who until moments earlier she had been dropping bombs upon, their arms upraised in gestures of exultation as they saw the flames billowing out from where the shrapnel had pierced the side of her Spitfire. She was going to have to do something quickly, or within a few more minutes even walking out of this flat was going top become increasingly difficult.
But Claire wasn’t an officer for nothing; she always kept an emergency ration for moments such as this. Because no matter how much love and unity there would be in the moments of heavy crack invocation, after the ceremony, as she well knew from her extensive experience, there would be noting but cold comfort and averted glances, at best.
At first she though about making her way to the toilet, but there was no need. Here we were all friends together. Deep inside her bra she had kept a syringe-filled with just enough brown for a one-off shot. If she brought it out, it wasn’t impossible that someone would grab it off her, and shoot it himself. If she were quick, she would probably avert that, so that ruled out a vein shot. Pinching the miniscule fold of flesh on the side of her bony bum, she slid the needle straight in and immediately began pushing hard on the plunger. Hopefully the fucker wouldn’t block up and then suddenly spurt out all over the fucking place like what had happened to her a few nights and a lifetime ago in some other part of the Cross. Luckily enough, the clear brown liquid flowed straight into the fatty cells and emptied out. She pulled the syringe out, and saw the jealous faces of some of those in the room that envied deeply her that warm loving embrace of the brown, and instead reconciled themselves to the savage and humiliating slam into the ground that their come-down was bringing them.
In the corner Easy the dealer sat, watching and not watching, right there aware of all the intricacies going on within the group and yet Buddha-like apart from it. Inside his mouth he kept a stash of small plastic wrappers, in two colours. The blue ones were for the white- the crack- the red were for the brown- the heroin. One to go up- the other- equally if not even more important- for safely coming down. Reckless would be the traveller to buy one ticket without the other. Whenever a punter came in and wanted so many of each, Easy would bring out the depository from inside his mouth and pick out, so many of red, so many of blue, depending on what they wanted. Thus, his nights rolled into days, which I turn rolled again into nights until all his wraps had turned themselves into cash. By then, a friend would have arrived with the next shipment, ready for packing and wrapping with the two kinds of plastic he kept in readiness. The cash would filter out through the same person and get deposited in a safe place. Throughout the junkie community there were always an infinitude of legends concerning where this dragon stash of wealth might actually be, and what might be involved in gaining access to it.
Right now, Claire was ready. She could feel the soft glow of the brown running through her, spreading out like the branches of a tree, like in those speeded-up National Geographic films of flowers opening up in the sunlight.
She was ready.
Stepping out onto the street she felt the icy blast immediately. The light from the overhead arc lights gave the council estate an eyrie East Berlin cold war edge. The entire place was completely deserted. Not a sole in sight, not even any fellow travellers, dodging in between the dark spaces between lamp posts on their way to a crack house. Claire was thankful to her gods for the hit of brown- without it she would invariably become paranoid, and start seeing people following her, or getting ready to try and kidnap her. She could never talk about these fears to anyone, in case they should turn out to be an actual part of the nightmare. Deepest of all, though, was her fear of being buried alive.
Since coming to London, her weight had just slipped off her. In times gone by- now, far far distant, it would have seemed like a young woman’s dream come-true if someone had told her then that she would be weighing some eight stones. By now, she had other concerns- other priorities, and she moved along keeping to the shadows like some incorporeal creature of a long-forgotten mythology.
Popping inside the shop window, she stepped out of the way of the slight drizzle which had started to spit. She reached down and pulled her crack pipe out of her crotch, wrapped in a durex. It slithered at first, then seemingly resisted, as though with a life of its own it wanted to stay lodged inside the crevice of her pussy. Then, with a stronger tug, and a slight widening of her legs, the whole package came through. At least she could have a scrape whilst waiting for a punter. The pipe consisted of a small glass Martel brandy bottle with a hole tapped into its bottom. Inside its spout was a roll of burned gauze wire, on which the crack was placed at the commencement of any smoking. Claire knew she hadn’t got any more crack, but as she looked at the insides of her bottle she could see the jet b lack residue of dozens of former smoking sessions. If she worked it right she could be assured of a massive blast, maybe two. Pulling out a long sliver of wire, she hooked the gauze wire onto its end and began twirling this inside, up and down, inside the bottle. As it twirled, it wiped up all the heavy residue that was lying in wait, and soaked it onto the gauze. An additional wipe across the bottom, and around where the hole had been tapped, and then the glass bottle was once again pristine clear. The gauze she retrieved and brought back up to the mouth of the bottle. With a gentle flick she pulled this free, and then carefully set it back into the mouth, pushing, teasing and coaxing the gauze into ever more dense permutations.
There, she was ready. She reached for her lighter. Inside her jacket pocket were several, mostly nearly-finished ones. There was nothing so frustrating as starting a blast only to have the poxy lighter fizzle out on you halfway through. She made sure the one she was going to use was the new one- or at least relatively so.
A quick glance out and along the street would quell- at least temporarily- any paranoia about being watched- by the police, by competitors, or by vigilante neighbours that were always campaigning to clean the area up. No sign of anyone.
She raised the pipe to her lips, placing them around the base of the bottle, and exhaled as deeply as she possibly could. Then, like a statue of liberty, she flicked the lighter and raised the flame right up to the very top of the pipe, and with her breath drew down the flame onto and into the gauze. There was a hearty crackle, like a mediaeval hearth, from up above, and even as she glanced carefully to check she could see an immense torrent of deepest black cloud thickening downwards along the bottle stem as it poured into her lungs. Keep it going, keep it going, nice and slow, nice and easy. No sudden movement, no jerky movement, just one nice ‘n’ easy motion here- don’t let the flame get too hot for the mouth- but don’t back off now, either…..crackle crackle…..nice ‘n’sexy glowing time all running through her frame and down between her legs, getting ready for some sexy times with PUNTERS…………it was showtime…..it was Hertime………as the world inside and out lit up in glorious technicolour. The dark street became a Disneyland ride of ancient London, every corner lit and enhanced with stunning colour and detail of workmanship. The little shops became glowing mini-museums of forgotten arts crafts, quaint and cartoon-like. The cars gliding past moved like the longships from some norse myth sailing up the mist-shrouded rivers of Mercia.
Deep inside her breast Claire felt an intense love spring up and outflow. Coming up was always like getting to the apex of one of those helter skelter rides in the fairground- from the top of this place you could look down and see everything in life and how it fitted together, over past, present and future. The wisdom of the gods flowed into her at that moment, and she understood- as she had done many times before- every secret, every mystery, of her life and indeed, of Life itself. She caught sight of herself in the window of the shop, and was stunned at how gorgeous she looked. No wonder so many men fell so madly in love with her….and wanted her.
And, to top it all, she had won the lottery.
Now, she told herself, now she would find the right punter………………………
He came round the corner, watching his speed in case the cameras the police had put on virtually every street corner should trigger his number plate and send a squad car out to pull him over. Usually they didn’t bother, but an intuition told him that they were more interested in keeping tabs on the cars the known Toms were seen getting into. Something told him the police were hunting for bigger prey than people with bent motors- or out of date tax disks. Rumour had it that so many girls were disappearing from the Cross, jumping into cars left and right with never a second thought- only ever a thought for the twenty or thirty quid a quick trick would bring them. They were in a hurry these girls- too much of a hurry for their own damn good. He wondered how long they generally lasted, before the drugs, or the pimps, or some deranged punter took them off for the last time, whisking them into the mist for God only knew what fate might befall them. Part of him felt sorry for them. Maybe one day, from amongst their horde, he would meet the One that he was destined to fall in love with. For deep down, he was a romantic.
But romantics must undergo many tests of their love, to see if it is true love that burns within their heart. He smiled to himself, then, catching himself in the rear view mirror, noticed how mysterious and handsome he looked. One free hand dipped into a pocket and pulled out a small phial of black magic oil. On the tiny label were the words ‘Flying Devil’, while inside was a dark red liquid like blood with something solidifying or coagulating at its bottom. He had picked it up from one of the ‘magical suppliers’ in Camden, the one in the back road that nobody noticed, at least not any of the whites, only the black people, the West Indians and the Africans, and the Indians, the women in their saris, the occasional men in their large turbans. A dab of that, and the strange, slightly challenging aura of the mystic was about him, or so he imagined.
He felt emboldened, now imaging himself to be a predatory creature, creeping through the urban jungle, in search of something further down on the food chain. Then, his mind shifted up into a yet higher gear, and he became in that instant an ancient vampire, cunningly disguised in this, his human host self, innocently rummaging through the Dickensian back streets of the desolation that was all that remained of King’s Cross- Goods Way, Pentonville Road, Caledonian Road. Outside all was blackness, a shifting swirl of darkness and fear only kept at bay by the airtightness of the magical circle that had hidden itself in the mundane form of his car.
He glided past the Post Office on Euston Road, and got into lane to do the Ueey to come back past St. Pancras Station, in all its true Victoriana glory, a mass of swirling turrents and intricate archways, taking on its persona of the Cathedral to All That Is Dark. He imagined he could hear the sonorous Gregorian chants of the trains from deep inside, their powerful bellows hitting their notes and gathering themselves into great cascades and crescendos of sound and invocation.
A swift glance along the side showed him the Shipwrecked scattered along its beachfront- survivors from a Thousand and One kinds of tragedy, abuse and desolation, all now trying to put behind them whatever had happened and start the evening on whatever kind of fresh note could be found. He saw one girl he had picked up once before, a girl with such saggy tits even the other whores took the piss out of her, and a cunt so wide that when he was fucking her he just got tired, and settled for a hard wank instead. After the hand job, he felt, as per usual, disgusted and ashamed with himself, yet still managed to keep up his Gentleman Jim act until he had brought the girl back to where he had found her. As she got out, he hung back for a few moments, to see what she did. Sure enough, from out of the shadows came the outline of a young black kid, her pimp, her dealer, someone who was gong to be taking off her the money. An arm, like a young tentacle flicked out and in an instant was gone, snatching the money. In the same moment, almost unseen by human hand a small package passed itself, like the painting of God reaching down to man in the painting by Da Vinci.
A few steps from her, was a very young girl, looking round and round, as if mesmerized by the traffic. He had seen her before, too, and had even be chased by her as he had paused to see if she was really what she had seemed, with her voice still sounding in his ears,
‘Biznis, mister! Biznis mister! Oi, biznis mister!’ sounding more like mockery from a demon from hell than a seductive entreaty from a siren. He had then felt the first tinge of shame, as he realized the extent of the degradation that surrounded him, and wondered how far into himself it might have already permeated.
There were others, oh yes, the one-Tooth merchant, the junky girl, the Cockney, the waif, all members of an awful pantomime, a carnival of death, in which the living and the dying walked side by side, fucking together, buying, selling and betraying each other on their road to their Final Judgement.
But none of them had the special something that he knew that this evening he was on the Look Out for.
Like most hunters, he would have been unable to verbalize exactly what this quality might be, but from deep inside him their was growing a longing for something that none of these other Punch and Judy characters could provide. He pulled into the left hand lane leading into Good Way, to come back on himself, and complete the Circle. As he drove around the Cross, he liked the idea that as he went along he was making certain kinds of circles, and even other mystical shapes and designs, and that this was somehow part of a Grand design.
And as he turned yet another corner, there……..he saw Her……………………..yes…………
Yes
Claire breathed out the last of the smoke, the felt the rush of power flowing deep inside her. Now she could face anything, and knew she would win.
Glimpsing quickly out of the shop doorway, she saw- somehow highlighted out from the other cars- the one that was carrying her punter to be. Like other girls that worked in the Cross, she had quickly developed a sixth, seventh and eighth sense to ensure her survival. In fact, so highly attuned had become these powers that she had veritably flourished, easily making over a thousand pounds in a good night.
The car slowed. It was almost as if some strange unearthly power would pre-select certain cars, certain punters out for her, and then by some strange magnetic or kinetic power draw them inexorably over to the side of the road where she was. At other times she thought it was herself, imbued with the telekinetic power that the god of crack cocaine bestowed upon those that partook of its sacred rites.
The car slowed, and as she took a glance of the punter’ face she knew he would be alright. It was mostly the blacks and Turks that were out to rob the girls, often banging them and then taking away all their money before driving off into the night. After such an experience, all the girls wanted to do was get back to the street and make some money for some brown, so as to cool themselves down. The last thing any of them ever wanted was to sit around I police stations, where their reception was variable, at best.
The bangers knew this, and hence focused their attacks on them as easy prey. Often the rape gangs could get away with their shit for years, or until some other kind of justice caught up with them. On the street were many kinds of justice, and much of it far more dread than anything the courts and the judges could ever hand down.
The near- side window wound down, electronically. The punter’s cheeky, chubby face leered up, slightly stoned on something- probably a bit of weed, Claire thought.
She leaned her slender body through the portal that was created.
‘Bit of biznis, mate?’ she asked, half closing her eyelids in imitation of something she had once seen in a sex film that her dad had once shown her, when she had been around ten years old.
‘Yeah, alright, darlin’, jump in’ he said, as she yanked open the door and whisked herself in, slamming the door ultra hard behind her. The sound- which she had been prepared for- always made punters jump, and gave them a little hint that she could look after herself in a tight spot, if push came to shove. It told them that she was no wimp; that she could look after herself, if it came to it.
At once her feet came into contact with rubble. Looking down, she saw several empty cans. Pieces of fish and chip wrapping paper, grease-smeared and stale-smelling curled up around it all, and over it all scattered like confetti were the buts of cigarettes.
Claire wondered what the fuck was wrong with this clown that it was too much effort even to get rid of this rubbish. All it would have taken was one swift sweep and it would all have been out the door.
But some punters loved the shite they lived and breathed in; for some it was almost like a biological support system, an eco-system, they called it, on television.
Bringing her mind back to the punter, she quickly sized him up, and gave him one of her most seductive smiles.
‘Alright luv?’ she said to him, in her best cockney. She started stroking his left leg, always a good way of getting the punters started.
‘This way’ she pointed up ahead, directing him where to go. It was important to take control as soon as possible. The longer you left it the more danger you put yourself in. If a punter thought he could take control, then the chances were that he would. That could mean anything, from getting short changed to getting robbed. Some girls had even been held in punters’ places for days when the punter thought them too weak to do anything other than go along with it. For a lot of the girls, as long as they were getting the drugs they needed, even that was OK by many of them, too.
Her hand moved further up along the inside of his leg, and rested over his balls. Giving these a little friendly squeeze was usually an excellent way of getting the punter primed and ready. Whereas the punter may have budgeted for a spend in the region of thirty pounds, for oral and sex, by priming him like this Claire had long since found out that easily up to a hundred pounds could be gleaned- often more. Thirty was just a quick spurt out. But for a really good sexy time, an hour, say, a oner was the price- but why not- if you’ve got the money, honey- go for an all-night session with the lady of your dreams?
Many a time Claire had been amazed to see the huge doorstep-like bundles of wedge in punters’ wallets when they opened up to pay out. In more than a few cases it looked as though a bank had been robbed. Many a blagger, after a nice successful job, would high-tail it up to the Cross to pick up a young piece of cunt.
In other cases, the punter could be swayed to pull-over by a cash machine, and pull out an additional five hundred- especially if they liked a smoke while they were getting their cock sucked.
‘I think I know the place’ the punter said, his eyes occasionally flickering like a snake’s across to her, already red-rimmed with the desire to spunk into her. Or maybe he’d already had a smoke before coming out. Those punters were the best. Some times they were already so out of it they didn’t even notice when she dipped them. This, she mused, as she twinked the end of his hardening cock between her thumb and forefinger, was probably what was going to be on the agenda for Big Boy here.
They were pulling in to a deserted car park, the kind Kings Cross specialised in, without any lights, security, cameras, where literally anything could happen- a woman get raped, a man beaten, and nobody would pass, at least until another car with punter might happen along and see them. Normally, though, punters were the last people on earth to be interested in anything other than their own gratification. Fuck everybody else. As long as I’m alright Jack.
They would see a woman lying ripped apart and bleeding form here arse and cunthole and just drive off into the night, without phoning for any ambulance. And not without reason, either. The Old Bill would probably have stitched them up, to get a conviction, so desperately short of true culprits they were known to pin anything on anyone, just to get their statistics up, and make it look to the Great British public that they were doing such a marvellous job.
Twink twink………twink twink……the bloke’s prick was almost standing up on its hind legs begging by now. She could feel the thing hard as a plank under his trouser fly.
‘Would you like half an hour?’ she asked him, coyly.
The punter was looking round. Something was telling him that all was not well. Something here was amiss. Punters, like the dealers, and like the working girls, generally develop sixth, seventh and eighth senses which are vital if they are to survive the extremely adverse environments which their economics thrust upon them.
He looked around. Everything was still, quiet. Possibly too much so. The key went back into the ignition, and the engine thrust again into life.
Just in time. At that precise moment three black youths wearing hoods came streaming out from behind a nearby car, each carrying something in their hands, a weapon of some kind. Something capable of doing harm, of causing pain.
The punter gave a little wave as he sailed past them, back up the ramp that had led in, and past another car, driven by a large African-looking black. The punter looked to see if beside him was a young white girl, but he didn’t think so. Strange- who knew what that guy was about? The punter thought about a possible police surveillance vehicle, trailing this young slip of a girl he had just picked up, possibly making sure she wasn’t getting abducted. He knew instinctively that there was some massive police operation on to try and catch the kidnappers – and in turn murderers- of these young women.
‘Friends of yours?’ he asked her, as he navigated his way past balisha beacons, cones, and into the honeycomb of adjacent streets which ran from Goods Way up to off the Cale Road.
‘No mate. I swear on my kid’s life!’ Claire stated emphatically, scared now in case the attempted mugging that had just happened should be something the punter might think she had had a part in. She felt a bit more explanation might not be a bad idea. Otherwise she might be getting her own arse cut. She had seen many a girl end up with big knife marks across her face from trying to set people up.
‘Honest guv’ she continued, ‘I never saw ‘em before tonight. They would have robbed me too. I’m glad you pulled out when you did.’ In truth, Claire had not had a part in arranging for the muggers to be waiting there. But many muggers knew like the back of their hand the spots round the Cross where they could get away with murder, where the Old Bill were too nervous to go by themselves, especially if they ran the likelihood of coming up against someone with a shooter.
The punter was silent for a moment. For Claire, this was not a good sign, neither was the fact that he was navigating by now out of the Cross area entirely and up towards Holloway Road.
It was time to say something.
‘’ere’ she said, harshly, ‘where the bleedin’ ‘ell you takin’ me? I know some proper spots, but not this way. Let’s head back. You’re takin’ me on a fackin’ trip rahnd the bleedin’ world, you are, and no mistake. And all for a fackin’ firty pahnd, ya cunt’.
The punter merely smiled.
‘Oh ma fackin’ gawd’ she thought, ‘I’ve gawn and gotten a right nutter ‘ave I’.
She was just about to swing her hips round and start using her young legs as the powerful kicking pistons they were. Many a time she had beaten back an out-of-order punter by kicking in this way.
Suddenly, though, the punter’s smile widened, and inside the rim of his mouth she thought at first that she was seeing things; several small multi-coloured plastic wraps, one set white, the other black, sitting on the top of his tongue as his teeth pulled back. Was this guy for real, or a trickster?
‘Wassat then?’ she asked, doubtful, but certainly curious. A punter that was mad enough to smoke with a working girl was a dream come true.
‘Wot do you fink?’ he asked back. ‘A little something for a nice sexy smoke’. There was an undertone of authenticity to his voice that made her start believing him. Anyone that was a mere bluffer would be a bit more keen than this one for her to believe him.
Hhhmm, she thought to herself. A nice sexy smoke. Immediately the liquids inside her starting bubbling again.
‘Well, in that case, no harm in me opening one up, then, is there?’ she said.
‘’No harm at all, but we go back to my place for the main course’ he added, as he reached up with one hand to his mouth and transferred one of the white packages into his palm.
Then, reaching across to her, he handed it.
Skinning back her teeth, Claire zipped open the package, and almost simultaneously brought out her bottle to put it on the end of. Using her lighter she melted down the pearly white stone onto, and then more firmly into the gauze wire.
Raising the bottom of the bottle to her lips, she fired up the top, and began pulling down masses of the thick black cloud that would taste so sweet in her mouth and lift her straight back up to the Throne of Heaven.
The burning seemed to go on for ever, although in reality it must only have been for two or three minutes. But in that time Claire systematically filled as many cavities in her lungs as she found humanly possible, cramming and jamming every available molecule into her cells, feeling the drug kick through along her arteries, into her lungs, then her heart, then straight into her brain. It was like the Christmas illuminations coming on, in full 3 D and moving, a kaleidoscope of movement, thought and every kind of fantastic feeling………….
As she was gasping for breath, she could vaguely hear the punter’s voice sounding off beyond the other side of a thick mist.
‘Feel it? I said, did you feel it?’ she could hear his voice. Cunt. Why did these cunts always talk when she was getting into her buzz?
She couldn’t answer, only nod. Better make up a pipe for him, too, though. He was the restless type, so the sooner he went sky-high and started getting more amenable, the better. She kept nodding, as she broke off another piece for him to smoke, melting it down in the same way so as to avoid the possibility of it becoming dislodged by any sudden or unanticipated movement of the car.
There, within moments, it was safely melted into the gauze.
‘That’d better be for me, right?’ he was saying.
‘Yeah, yeah, it is’ her voice now lost the calculated hard nut edge from the cockney, and was reverberating back to the slight west country burr, native to the area of Reading from where she actually hailed.
He pulled over, and eagerly took the pipe off her. Raising the flame, he sucked long and hard through the glass stem. He took his time, sucking nice and gently, soft and slow. Only the amateurs smoked too quickly. You would get more out of it through going softly, and consistently. Sucking the devil’s dick, they called it.
After he inhaled, he sat there at the wheel, staring straight ahead of him, saying nothing, doing nothing. He was completely motionless, totally still. Then, without warning, the smoke he started to exhale, a thick vapour like the body of an oriental dragon, coiling and uncoiling itself as it made its way out of that genie’s bottle, its head appearing in one place, only to retract and come out in another, over and over again.
The air smelt of thick chemical. But Claire loved it. The punter’s face was bright red by now, his eyes bulging, as if inside the pressure had suddenly jumped.
Then he went again, for a second round. He knew that from the amount she had put on there was plenty left for second or even third rounds. Claire liked to put biggies on, especially when someone else was paying for it.
When he had finished, there was something spent about him. Most punters would be even more charged up, ready for all kinds of James Bond action after a blast like that. But this one was one of the other kind, the type that liked to take it a bit easy after a heavy blast. OK, then so be it, she said to herself. That makes my job even easier.
Everything came to a stop. Even the police sirens in the distance seemed to switch off. Nothing moved along the streets. Claire knew to let the man have his buzz. They were all wired as fuck, in this game.
He passed the bottle back. Inside the plastic packet in her hand the white stone was nearly done. A shadow of its former self remained- she plucked it out and started putting it on the top of the gauze. She would need a new gauze wire on it soon. In one of her pockets was a large piece of spare wire. She had already taken the precaution of burning it, putting it through a flame long enough to flame off all the metallic outercasing of the wire, turning it over and over on the flame to ensure an nice all-over burning. The wire had changed from pristine silverlike to darkened black, and was ready. But changing gauzes in midsmoke was always to be avoided. Better to wait until they were back at his place before getting a new gauze on. That way, it wouldn’t be any problem about soaking the first stone into the wire to get it properly ‘smoked’. It always took the initial stone to get a new wire properly soaked for a thorough blasting.
‘No more’ the punter said. Hoho, so we’re getting a bit of a tough guy, now, are we, Claire thought to herself. Getting to be a bit of a cheeky bollox. Okay, then, matey, she thought to herself. I know how to play your little game.
‘Okay guvnor’ she said, though, meekly, doing her best imitation of an orphaned waif out of a Charles Dickens story.
The punter seemed to come to life, getting into the role play. Whatever kinky frolics the coming night was going to hold, Claire realised, it was going to be good. The thick stream of juice flowing down the inside of her fanny tube was too strong and too thick to be wrong.
The car swept further through the darkened streets. The silence engulfed them. At the end of a warren of streets they arrived at what Claire supposed was, for the punter, home. She had never been to this part of London before. In fact, she wasn’t even sure which part of London she was now in. Normally she would keep tabs on where she was being taken, but this punter had distracted her with the free sample. She started to get paranoid about even that. Maybe that’s why he had given it to her- a perfect ploy, if he had a kidnapping in mind.
No, he’s alright, just a bit lonely, she told herself. Most smokers were like that. Lonely fucks that everybody else had given up on.
Along the sides of the road were trees, some really big, reaching out across the wide lane up ahead and even to the other side. The houses here were each of them different; large, really old, and each one of them different from the next. She imagined the large windows at their tops like great eyes, and the doorways, which had curved archways, as mouths, opening up to gobble up those that entered, or merely gaping in astonishment at the outside world.
Together they got out of the car, and Claire waited until she got some sign from the punter as to which amongst these places was the one he lived in. She imagined him to be sweating it out in some little housing benefit place. A basic bed, a tiny sink and pair of taps in the corner, a paper cupboard with its standard issue broken railing inside. She knew the score.
The punter led her up towards one of the great houses. In years gone by this had probably been a family house, with the rich man’s daughters living in the upstairs front rooms, right at the top. She could see there was a basement flat in what used to be the servant’s quarters, and the house was at least three floors above this. In the front garden was a small tree growing in a circle, around which tapered a concrete drive with an old Volvo sitting there. The car looked like a genuine antique piece, shiny black in the night, the orange and white streetlamps gleaming off its chassis. Following the punter, Claire walked through the front door, with its old stained glass emblem in its frame, into the hallway. Inside it looked like the doors she had seen one time when she had bunked into one of the Inns of Chambers with a punter for a screw. The tiny little doorways, with peoples names crudely hand painted in black on white backgrounds on signs just outside. Up the stairs, and the stairs double-backed onto themselves, then along, through a really dark bit, where for a moment Claire thought something dodgy might actually be about to take place.
The punter pushed against a delayed light socket plunger in the side of the wall, and the light above them went on, but only for a few seconds. Just as the punter found his keys and started to open the door to his flat, they switched off again, leaving them both in absolute darkness. Then a square of light opened up ahead, as his key turned and he went in.
Inside it wasn’t too bad. She was used to some of the lowest dregs in the planet up inside her, but this one, she could tell, could be a real pushover, if handled properly.
Things like books on shelves and records by a turntable proclaimed this clown as a real fucking idiot. In the corner was an Indian looking statue of some goddess or something, dancing, quite tall, about three feet, with two smaller dancers carved, one on each side, each different. In a corner, by the side of a large wide window, was a computer, on a pedestal. The curtains were opened, and across the panorama Claire could see the whole of London lit up, from pyramid-tipped building of Canada House in Canary Wharf on the left, to the British Telecom Tower on the right, with all the dishes and transmitter screens hanging from its bulbous stem, clinging like so many beetles and aphids scurrying for juice.
It was an impressive view. She hadn’t realised just how high they had come, to be able to look down over London like this. In fact, she had never really seen such a view in all the time she had been working in the metropolis.
The punter seemed quite cheerful. Now as the time to strike.
She assumed her frozen posture- and put her right hand out, palm up.
‘Oi, I want me fackin’ munneey’ in her crudest cockney. And if that accent wasn’t guaranteed to freeze a man’s balls, she didn’t know what could.
The punter reached into his wallet, and pulled out a red one. Fifty quid.
‘And where’s the fackin’ rest?’ she added. It never did any harm to go for what you could, when you could. After he had spunked out, he wouldn’t be anywhere near as keen to open his wallet up. But the, you never knew. Claire had a funny feeling about this one. Not a bad feeling but just different.
Ahh, that might be it, the thought crossed her mind. Maybe a tranny. Hhhmm, that could be interesting, especially if this one turned out- like most of them- to be a sub. Subs were a dream. You could dream them, cream them, drain them, and still not have to give any pussy.
She glanced in the direction of the cupboards, and a sneaking idea that inside were all his girlie outfits. But she would wait until they had settled down for a good thick smokie- a nice sexy smokie- before she started cracking the whip and getting him into those frillies.
Then the next immediate step would be his fucking bank card with pin number, and we’d be off to a reasonable weekend. With dildo dollie here tied up, she’d invite some of her other pals over for a Torture garden.
For any sub, a dream ‘come’ true, literally.
‘Look, I want at least a oner, for bringing me all this facking way’ she insisted.
Meekly, like the good little tranny she now knew he was, he reached into his seemingly ever-full wallet and brought out another couple of fifties.
Snatching the money from his hand, she crumpled and snuffed the notes into the right cup of her bra.
‘Here, dear’ he said, all suddenly wimpy-like, why not make yourself comfy?’ as he pointed towards a set of large cushions positioned right in front of a TV and video system.
‘Yeah, right’, she said, opening her legs as she started sifting through the man’s porn. This was beginning to acquire the makings of a real turn-on for her, too. It had long been her dream to start getting into the bondage side of things. Straight sex for her had long since been something that she had totally explored, even discovering some things she didn’t think had previously been put down on any map. But the dom scene had always just been out of reach. She had met loads of girls for whom it had become a big thing. The word was that fortunes had been made from individual punters, too- girls being jetted off to far away places- bought expensive cars for, furs, and restaurants- some girls had even been bought houses and flats for themselves by their punters. It was a different class- a very exclusive class- the mystery of which had long since been an item of intense fascination for her. Many of the girls in the scene had carried an intense hatred for the men they punished, often born from childhoods in which they had been sexually abused.
The instruments of punishment- she had seen some of them- come close but never actually used them- maybe this punter would be an ideal target to get her practice in on. She started thinking about treading a bit more carefully then. Maybe she shouldn’t just clean this one out with a blagging.
‘Oi, and hand me the gear, while you go and get showered, and then I want you to change into something a bit more comfy- UNDERSTAND?’ she raised her voice, strict-like, at the end. She had always proved herself to be a resourceful girl, when she had to be , which was often.
For a split moment, in which time itself seemed to slow down and freeze, then the punter’s hand moved, almost as if it had an independent motion from that of the main body. It went up to the mouth, and as if by metal springs the little set of plastic packages popped out, and into the palm. The punter’s eyes were fixed on her, and as his hand opened towards her Claire could see that he was only handing her one- one to be getting on with. She used her X ray vision to guestimate how many were left- she guestimated about six more of white, and probably about four of brown. Good enough to get the party started, at least. If, after that lot were demolished, the punter might get a little pussy. Although possibly not. If the gear finished early, then she would be off out the door, unless he had the means and the wil to get a fresh supply brought in. For sure, this would be how it was going to go.
Claire relaxed a bit, not fully letting go of the Dom act, but realising that she was going to able to have an in-depth session with this punter, the kind she liked to have.
The package in her hand as he passed it to her was wet and warm, from his mouth. Some punters – the more paranoid ones- even kept their gear up their arseholes, in case they got robbed or stopped by the law. Then there would be a real shit smell hanging about for hours while they blasted away on the crack. Not that that ever put her off, but even in her most drug- crazed states had she ever actually sought out the odour of something so depraved. She had known those that did, though- girls that would shit on punters for a smoke, even girls that would receive punishment, of cigarette burns and cuttings in exchange for money- or, even better- gear!
‘Now go and shower’, she ordered. ‘When you get back, you’re going to be sucking on some pussy.’ She stood with her legs widely apart, in that very powerful position that most men found almost hypnotic. Her small black miniskirt was riding up the back of her schoolgirl legs and bony bum. Her jacket hung open, her tiny tits inside her top puffed up by a wonderbra, to give the illusion that she was more curvy. The punter, though, could see that he had struck lucky. This one looked like a young schoolgirl. Probably about nineteen, though. Many of the really young looking girls already had daughters and sons of their own, although often the social services would have long since stepped in -with their nonces in the wings- ready and willing to ensure the next generation’s crop of young whores and rent boys.
‘Fuck the shower’ said the punter. He wanted to get down to some good old-fashioned cunt-lickin’, straight away. Claire fixed another meaty blast on the end of her pipe, and spread her cunthole wide over his cushions. She smiled. She liked it when the punter was a right crude fucker. This one was wise, too. When the punter went for a shower, any working girl would be onto his wallet like a ferret up a cunthole, and the, probably, straight out the fuckin’ door. Probably Billy Punter here had already been done that way. Once bitten, thrice shy. It only ever took one girl, like herself- a clipper- and the punter would be awakened to a world he had never known had existed. Often they wouldn’t know what had hit them, until too late. Literally.
She opened her legs, and flicked the switch of the lighter.
‘Come on then, cunthole, lap it up’ the crack at the end fizzled and crackled, heavily. The heavy odour of burning aroma the familiar chemical smell of ammonia drenched crack cocaine began filling up the room. The pounter’s face was warm and sexy down by her cunthole. Hhhhmmmmm it was good. She raised one leg a bit, to allow his meandering tongue to slide between her pussy lips, up and down………..up and down……..up and down……………now there’s a good little boy.
‘Yesssss’ she said ‘Lick the cunny…………..in and out………..lick the cunny……….do as your told………..’ she knew that many punters relived what they had been through in their initial sexual experiences when they smoked………and many, many of them had been abused as kids, as she had.
But it was so lovely. Oh God, it was so nice, so wrong………..she relived being a young kid when her dad left her in the care of a male friend, and he would make her stretch into all manner of positions while bathing her, photographing her, then sharing the snaps with his mates. She often got the sniggers when she went to meet her dad from work, where he was a brick hod carrier. The other guys would snigger and point to her. Little remarks followed her all the days of her youth, till eventually her dad found out. But she had been getting groomed by his mate for several years by then, and knew nothing else. Her dad had been furious, and had only calmed down when she had performed a perfect blow job on him, and for free. After all, what would you do, if you discovered that your little girl was widely renowned as the best little cock-sucker on the estate and you weren’t even getting your slice?
She stretched back into the cushions. She could relax a bit more now. Fuckin’ hell, this cunthole was good- a nice natural pussy-licking little boy. Suddenly the even kinkier idea of getting him to give head flickered into her mind.
‘Hhhhmmmm, that’s a nice little boy. I’ve got some nice cocky for you to be lickin’ off, and all, after this. You’re in for a nice long suckin’ party, aren’t you?’
With her free hand she reached out and ripped at his hair. Then her hand went for one of his nipples, tweaking it harshly with her hardened fingers. Her clit was rock hard like a cock by now, sliding in and out of little boy’s mouth. She could see the potential of this one.
‘I’m going to pimp you, little boy. Lots of nice niggas comin’ round for some sucky’ The juices were running like a stream down the insides of her legs by now. She snapped off another chunk of white magic and with a heavy breath managed to get it on the top of the pipe. With both hands she flamed and crackled the piece, and the thick black fumes- jet black- absolute black- flared down the stem into her lungs. It was like breathing perfume. She would have to put another one on for little boy, too. Keeps him nice ‘n’ little. Hehehe. Hhhhmmmm.
Ooooohhhhhhhhhh.
He was getting more and more into the licking…………then, when she had his pice ready for him, sher tapped him slightly on the shoulder. His head raised up, flushed with happiness at having found such a compatible girlfriend. She was going to move in, she decided. This place would be OK for bringing punters back. Now and again she would feed them to little boy, for some additional amusement, of course. Then, occasionally, she would let him watch while the real men made love to her- on his bed, leaving beautiful romantic spunk stains all over it for him to lick off, after they had finished fucking. And make him dress as a girl. She wondered what kind of girlie gear he kept in the cupboard over there. That would come later. She was going to come at this rate. Fuck it, she might as well. Come all over this cunt’s face. Make a nice big stain, with her juices. Let him have something to remember her by. It was a nice touch if the guy had a girlfriend, to leave a pair of really stinking panties in the marital bed right deep down where they wouldn’t be discovered for weeks, and then, only by the girl herself, who would immediately realise what had been going on.
Claire was getting wetter and wetter, and the treacle was spilling all over the cushions. This was so wanton, being nicely licked out whilst blasting on stones……but as she rested the soles of her shoes up on little boy’s shoulders, affording him a wider pussy crack with which to devote him ministrations she noticed he still had his trousers on. She flicked out a hand and unbuckled his belt, and sharply pulled his trousers and boxers down, to just above his bent knees
She had already spotted his wallet, tucked away in one of the trouser pockets, so, maintaining her balance whilst his tongue continued to plate her, she stretched out a bit more with one hand and- hey presto- his wallet appeared in her hand. With consummate skill she eased out all the notes using her fore and second fingers, sliding the wallet back into the pocket whilst at the same time slipping the notes into the right cup of her bra. Always nice to have an insurance policy. Sometimes punters could get funny and just throw you out, for no reason, especially if they hadn’t been able to come, or sometimes precisely because they had. Either way, it was nice to have a little extra to look forward to for when the party here would be shuddering to its inevitable end.
She felt herself coming, for the second and then third time. The stone in her hand had diminished to a bare crumb of what it had been. More gear was required. It was hard for her to speak when she was in this state, but speak she must, unless she wanted to start coming down. She readied herself to speak, and started to slide back into her best Dickensian cockney accent.
‘Oi, mate! Oiiiii, you. Where’s the fackin’ gear? Come on, spunk it out!’
Old silly bollox opened his left palm where he\was keeping all the rest of the gear. Hhhhmm, she thought, a fair way to go. There must have been about six or seven wraps of white, and about four of brown, ready for the come-down. The gear was nice and strong though. There was no rush, really.
‘You’re not in a hurry to come, are you?’ she said, emphasising the last two words, giving it the edge of an order.It was always a good move on a punter, because it implied the punter was in for a bigger session that the one he had set out for- and that he was getting a bargain. After all, think of all the kinky fun they could have together right up until the point where he came. After that, as we all knew, it would be a case of ‘on yer bike, fanny’, and probably turfed out into the street. That was why she liked to delay these cunts from coming, sometimes preventing them from coming at all was another kind of victory in itself. Just keep them wanking about, on the edge of a come, but never getting there.
She spotted a box of rubber bands on the side, and grabbed them, pulling several out and sliding her deft fingers into the midst of them. These usually worked a treat, especially where the punter had submissive tendencies. She wrapped these bands right around his balls, using both hands to make sure a really tight fit, doubling the bands back over twice, then three times, round the balls together, then the balls individually, then one round – the third, and the most vicious- round the cock stem. The balls instantly starting to bloat up a deep angry red. But as she put on another heavy blast for the punter what might at one point have become pain now blossomed into an ecstacy of heavenly pleasure, as the black smoke hit his lungs and coursed through his blood, setting off fireworks right behind his eyes. She knew that in this state it was possible to take a lot of punishment, experiencing it as pleasure. Some she knew seemed to thrive on the cuts and the burns they were able to pick up as they went along, proudly showing off their battle scars to each other as their paths crossed in some of the crack houses through which they moved.
She thought about using the heated end of the crack bottle, but no. That might be a bit too much of a shock for this one. Always better to build up slowly, yet surely. A slow, consistent, persistent pain that dulled into an indefinable ache was a surer bet. She dropped the thought, too, of burning with her lit cigarette ends. All that could come later, when she was more sure of her catch on his little hook. She didn’t want this one wriggling off prematurely. This could be a good weekend’s beginning. And if he proved able to come up with other funds, he might be able to afford the pleasure of her company for the entire weekend, even. We will see, she thought.
As he kneeled on one side, coming up for air only rarely, now, and then only at her behest for a further pipe, he seemed to be showing signs of anxiety that the gear was going to be melting away rather too quickly.
His face appeared between her legs, like a skin diver, his mask thrown back, gasping for breath.
‘Well come on then, bitch, do something! Get down and suck my dick you fuckin’whore’.
Well, that put paid to the notion that he was a goodie goodie, out for a bit of naughtiness. She had better do something, then, so she pulled herself down and put her teeth around the edge of his cock and balls, playing with her tongue and mouth around them, coaxing them into action. She used her fingers to pinch them, her chipped fingernails cutting into the sides of them to remind him of who was boss. He got back to loving it. She could tell from the extra graceful motions his tongue was now making up against the sides of her arsehole, round by the beefcurtains, then up along the bony cunt stand itself, where she had shaved her pubes back to make the cunny look more like a little girl’s hole. The peedos really liked that effect.
No, this was a streetboy, Claire realised. He probably wouldn’t be such an easy walkover- he had obviously been down this road before. Unless she could get him to fall in love with her- now that would always raise the stakes. She picked up a ruler- it wasn’t so amazing the things this guy kept by the side of where the action was happening- he had obviously planned it all out this way- and started smacking his bum, then his balls. Not too hard, at least at first.
But nice measured strokes, nice ‘n’ easy peasey, with a little gap in between, almost as if she had become distracted from the punishment, had forgotten, or was teasing him into thinking that she had, or even encouraging him into distraction. But then the ruler would strike back, each time getting a bit harder, a bit crueller, hitting an ever-more sensitive edge of his apparatus, giving him the thin edge, and no longer the flat side, the bastard.
What she would give for a good cane right now.
The gear was rapidly burning down. She had already come about twenty times, but best to bring this wanker off right now- if he still hadn’t come by the time the gear ran out there could well be hell to pay, Claire realised. Best to get those fuckin’ silly bands off his gear and then just wank him off, as in the time honoured tradition. Then out the door, before he realised he’d been dipped.
She peeled back the rubber bands, as was thankful the tosser hadn’t been physically injured, so tight had they been biting round his equipment. The gear was wearing off now- she realised that they had reached the point where no matter how much more you smoked you weren’t going to get any higher than you were at this point. It would e a waste of gear. Maybe because the gear wasn’t as strong as it could have been, or so it seemed. The more you smoked, the more you thought that the gear was getting progressively more cut with each stone you unwrapped.
Then, putting her bottle down, she started wanking the tosser for all she was worth. If he wanted more after that he could get his arse down to the cash machine and dig some more out.
The punter’s face was red as an apple, his mouth open and his breathing laboured. He had closed his eyes, which Claire was thankful for. She hated punters that liked to look her in the eye when they came. Then, from nowhere, she could feel the come coming. Like the rumble of a train along the tracks from far away, at first a soft trembling, then getting closer and closer, till with a grunt like a pig the punter was blowing his muck all over her hand, and his cushions. Then she let it go, and like a dying snake the last of the muck spilled out, trickling more slowly now. His eyes had opened, and Claire jerked up her panties, ready to shift if he suddenly realised about the money missing from his wallet.
‘You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ she said, keeping her face straight. She didn’t want any nervousness on her part be the one thing that might alert him to the clipping.
‘Well, you surprised yourself there, didn’t you?’ she asked again, a slight tinge of uncertainty beginning to creep into her voice.
From the spunk he had blown all over the cushions- she wiped the stuff off from her hand with a deft swoop- he had certainly had one hell of a time. But she had better watch it. Some kid of an alarm bell was sounding off, deep inside her, and she didn’t want to set this bloke off, if nutter he was. Maybe she could sit in and have a b it more of a smoke. Nice and friendly, like. Maybe the punter would start getting the sap back in his branches, ready for a second round, by then.
‘I’d better……pay you’ he was saying. Oh bollox, now he was going to discover the missing money. But maybe not. She would have to bluff it out. Be wrong and strong.
He pulled his wallet out, his trousers still halfway down his legs, his boxers wrapped round his ankles. Halfway across the floor Claire could see the rubber bands, grinning merrily back, insanely.
Opening his wallet, Claire knew that the best policy was to distract him.
‘Wot abaht some more gear, mate?’ she asked, loudly. The punter’s face was a puzzle. He WAS a muppet, after all! What joy! He hadn’t even the savvy to realise that she had tricked him, let alone have the balls to openly accuse her.
This was dreamland.
‘That’s funny’ he began.
‘Wos funny? Wot, jer fink arv gawn an’ nicked off ya, is that it?’ she started off aggressively, ready to throw a punch at his fat face.
‘No, no’ of course not. Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply……..’ his wimpy voice trailed off into nothingness.
Now to take the intitiative.
‘Yeah, well, wot? Oh, I suppose your makin’ out you’ve gawn and spent all yer money on sumpfink else now, when you should have been keeping it back for me. I want anuvver oner, mate, or I aint leavin’ here. I can get yer dun fer rape, mate, yer fackin’ wanker’.
Instantly the punter started shitting himself. Inside Claire revelled in her effective and powerful her way of dealing with wankers like this was. They all started bricking it when the subject of a nice little rape accusation came up, as it invariably did when the punter tried short-changing the girl. She had heard other girls’ stories about this one- with the end result working out much more expensive for the punter than if he had squared off with the girl an extra thirty or forty while he had the chance. There were some girls so vicious they had even sent guys down on that one, too, she knew.
‘Now, there’s no need to get excited. I………er………I can pop down to the cash machine and get a little extra, if you like…………….or’ at this idea he seemed to brighten up a bit, ‘We can continue smoking out of my stash, and see where that takes us’.
See where that takes us? Is that what she had heard him say? She must be losing her fucking mind. See where that takes us? From the way sillybollox was talking anyone would have thought he was talking about a taxi ride round London – The Sights by Night. You fackin’ wankstain, she thought, we all KNOW where a few more stones is going to fackin’ well take us. And that was another thing- all of a sudden the US word. Cuntholes, she had just won the fucking lottery, finding this fucking spastic.
‘She leaned forward, her arms resting on her knees. Sitting on the floor in front of her, he still hadn’t pulled his draws back on. Let him have a sneaky glance right up her snatch. See them neat little panties, peeping shyly back at you, wankstain? See the cunthole you are definitely NOT going to be fucking tonight, or any other night, you fucking wankstain?
Yeah, give him a little ray o’ hope. Just enough to encourage him down to the cash machine for a quick two fifty, or whatever his daily limit was. After that, roll on midnight, when he’d be able to pull out the same again. Some punters could pull up to five hundred at a time. Now that was dreamtime come true. Ohhhhhhhhh yessssssirrrr………cum suck babe………….I’ll be YOUR bubble gum babe…………………daddy.
This fucking clown she had pulled had some kind of self-image as a fucking Oscar Wilde type, a rake out of Victorian times, an aristocrat who liked to run with the foxes and hunt with the hounds, as it were. She had met a fair few like this. Pratholes like this liked the idea of ‘saving’ girls like her from a life of vice. Their other trip was of becoming a ponce, a Haymarket Henry, a Lord Peter. It was two sides of the same coin, and invariably guys like this liked to play at roles, which she would encourage, let alone permit, but for as long as the old spondoolicks lasted. After that, it was adios amigo all the way, and she would leave them, broken and bankrupt, totally spunked out in every sense, completely vampirised.
Deep inside herself she loved the notoriety of being a femme fatale, the kind of woman that men such as these would turn mad on meeting, becoming drawn in on the level of pussy first, then increasingly drawn into perversions and submission from which there would be no escape. She had never had a slave before, but maybe now that one had more or less appeared, on her doorstep, so to speak, maybe now was the time she began playing a gentler game, and started turning these guys places into her knocking- shops. That could be a very savoury act of desolation in itself. A real spicy thing to do. Just to sit back and watch everything about such a punter’s life turn to shite, as she started bringing back other punters to use the place as a bonking gallery, while the slave himself descended into deeper and deeper levels of addiction, helplessly looking on as he begged for a fix at the end of each day’s worth of total denigration. How sweet that would be- after all, hadn’t that had been what had happened to her? Now that things were turning full circle, how delectably sweet for her to find herself on the dishing-out end, at long last.
‘All right, well pop along then. And leave the gear here. I’m going to be handling that from now on, my poppet.’ She reached out and pinched the cheek of his face, almost affectionately. ‘But you’d best get your trousers up before going out’. She couldn’t believe it when the cunthole actually put all the wraps into her hand. She tried not to let out a sigh of relief. Keep it looking as though all he’s doing is what is completely normal.
As the mug tugged his skids back on, he said,
‘You’ve no idea what a big step it is for me to trust anyone quite so much’. With that, he was on his feet, and heading for the door.
‘See you in a mo’,’ he said, musically.
‘Take yer time’ she replied, under her breath. ‘And don’t forget to write’ she added, as the door shut behind him.
Fuck me, she said aloud, to herself, and to whatever ancient gods might have been loitering there to overhear, ‘I’ve just won the fackin’ lottery’.
Well, now that I’ve got this drum to myself, Claire thought, what do I do with it? First thing, she thought, give it a quick spin. You never knew what goodies cuntholes like this might have stashed away. Buckets of gold coins, jewellery, maybe worth grands, she had even heard of some girls finding colossal stashes of drugs. Hhhmmmm now THAT would be a turn on. She thought of all the heavy orgasms she might be able to have with something like that dropping into her lap.
Imagine finding a kilo of Charlie. Yummie. Imagine all those big fat cum stains that would be sliding down the back of her throat, too, the kinky thought entered her head like a charm.
She looked at the wraps sitting in the palm of her hand, and thought to hold on just a mo’ and have a peep round at whatever goodies might be lying around. Clasping the wraps even tighter, she jumped to her feet. She glanced up at the rows of books, all stacked along ordinary planks out of a makeshift bookcase made of loose bricks. Books was not her thing, at all, but some of these titles seemed to be about the Devil. The Satanic Bible, she noticed, and ‘The Satanic Witch’, was another. There seemed to be quite a number of books about demonology, and voodoo. Something stood out which mentioned the Orishas. Was that the name of a yardie gang round Trenchtown?
Being a working girl from the Cross, she had gotten to know more than a few Jamaicans, most coming in to the country for the first time, and hence really naïve, especially around white girls on the game. Underneath all their testosteronic bravado was a deep naivety and simplicity which was easy to twist into something that could be beautifully abused.
Especially when it came to getting tick- credit, for drugs; ‘honest guv you’ll get the money later, mon’. Later my old cunthole. Later.
That, and a hint of some possible pussy, was normally enough to trick the poor nigga out of some of his wraps. When the money came in, if the guy was a pussy, and had been too soft, the girl would deliberately diss him, so as to draw down heat on him from whoever had laid the drugs on him in the first place. It was always a laugh seeing someone who had tried to help you getting his arse cut because his money was short.
Hahahaha
Popping open the cupboard door, Claire looked inside. Ahhh…….there we have it, she thought. On the left hand side was all his masculine stuff, shirts, jackets, ties, socks, all wrapped up nice and neat, ready for work, presumably- what did he do, she wondered?
On the right hand side was a row of all his girlie gear. Big-time trannie stuff, too- the kind of stuff no actual woman would wear- big frillie knickers, gigantic wigs, rows of basques, a small army of six- inch high heel shoes, standing to attention. She noticed inparticular a pair of red shiny ones, bright as a pin.
Just as I thought. Well, the first thing to do with him when he got back was make him dress up as a girlie, and then start raining insults down on him for being a big sissie. That ought to get him going. Claire continued scouting around the flat. She opened a drawer. Ohoh……..bank statements. She flicked up a sheet- hmmm, not bad, thirty grand sitting in this one.
Well, that was going to be the first thing that got pumped out of there, or her name wasn’t Claire cunthole.
Thirty grand. Whooooaaahh….wait a minute………that was a nice one. She quickly thought as to who she knew that she could pass this over to. Ah yes, now she had it. A friend of hers had introduced her to a big fella - a white guy- called Steve at a crack house, where they had both been having a smoke. He moved like a bear; looked as though he could handle a bit of the rough stuff should it ever rear its ugly head. But he and his girl Pauline handled mainly fraud. She hesitated, but decided to take one of the bank sheets, as they were always handy iin giving a complete stranger such as herself full details of account and sort code numbers. What thoughtful people they were, those bank heads.
She wrapped up the sheet into a tiny square of its former self, and slid this, also, into the right cup of her bra.
Going through the erest of this guy’s stuff, she found a nice stack of porno. Well well well well well…….now this is where things started to take off. There were mags on rapes, submission, trannies, even a kiddies corner, this one showing in the frist hald Swedish-looking adults standing with all their tackle hanging out right next to their five and seven year-old looking kids. As if it were the most natural ting in the world- standing there with all yer tackle hanging out. There was something about the faces of these adults that made them all look somehow the same. It was as if they were all infected with the same disease, or DNA fault; they all looked tinged with retardedness, somehow. Maybe that was the noncey ‘look’. Claire had long since noticed that certain kinds of perversions seemed to leave their imprints on the faces – and certainly in the minds- of those they afflicted. Gays, another example- had a certain ‘gay’ mutation to their faces, after a while it was as though taking so many dickies up the Khyber pass resulted in their facial muscles, too, undergoing distortion. Maybe from all the pain of having their arseholes plundered constantly. The second half of the mag was really naughty. It showed an Asian-looking couple making oral sex in front of what was presented as their daughter, who looked to be about five or so. Claire turned a page, now the mother was showing the little girl how to suck dicky. Claire’s fingers were trembling now, as the next page flipped over. The little girl’s face was an expression of absolute agony as the ‘daddy’ tried taking her from behind. |The mother’s face was an expression of absolute glee, as if she had been waiting for years to play this trick upon her own daughter, and was finally getting her own back on her for a painful birth. She was almost cheering on the dad to really go for it. Claire took a deep breath. OK, well, this could be coming out when Billy Punter returned. She had always fancied a bit of the naughty stuff herself, and in the course of her work certainly came across a fair bit of it. It made ordinary bonking as boring as hell, though. Once you had gone the kinky way, Claire knew, there was no going back. Being a straight fucker was like drinking water forever, after that.
She had come across more than a few punters with kiddies gear before. Having been plonked from the age of dot herself, it came as no particularly big deal. Mentioning a similar find once before, in a crack house, she had then realised how common it was for the girls that worked the Cross area. The other big thing was bondage.
Sorting through another drawer, she came across what looked like a toolbox. Opening it up, a velvet lining gave an aura of the exclusive to the set of medieval torture equipment that was stacked inside.
Here, a pair of clamps designed for affixing to the nipples, with an adjustable screw at each end, for tightening the pressure. Here, a body harness, which had straps for the legs and arms to go through, and even a piece which promised to fit over the mouth. Here a large red rubber ball hung in place, ready to stop up the mouth of any prospective slave as a gag, and around the back of this an attached strap with notches along its length for adjustment through a buckle.
Different sets of handcuffs lined the bottom. Some, she noticed with an experienced eye, had quick-release pressure clasps embedded along the side. These would enable any victim to release themselves if any role play started getting out of control. Other handcuffs, though, didn’t have these features. She could guess which set might be worn by the punter, and into which sets he might try and encourage his girls.
Hhhhmmm, she had one sick bastard, she realised. She wondered about what might have happened to some 0of the other girls he had managed to lure back to this drum. She, too, had heard about how so many of the girls that worked the Cross were supposed to be just disappearing, vanishing off into the blue. There was supposed to be some big police operation going on, in which the Old Bill were trying to track down where the girls were going to. Some said that they might be getting shipped out to some place overseas. Maybe in Arabia, or Africa. She herself wondered if some of them weren’t still sitting at the bottom of certain punter’s basements with chains around their legs. Like in the pictures of some medieval dungeon. The thought chilled her. But the sooner the sick fuckers who were doing all this were nicked, and put inside, out or the way for ever and a day, the better for all concerned. That way the streets would become safer for your average girl to pop out on an evening and rustle herself up an extra oner or two, when she might have need. She remembered the time she had been pulled over one night, and nicked for soliciting. Taken to Stoke Newington Police Station, she had been amazed at the sheer size of it. The cells in the underground basement seemed to run round in a gigantic circle for ever. There must have been a hundred cells down there, and as she passed by on her way to the one set aside for her, she had heard the voices of so many of the other working girls she knew, call out to her as she passed by. The police must have nicked about twenty or thirty of the girls that night, which was a rough average for them. One of the girls, she knew, had been nicked earlier that evening for setting up some punter with a couple of black guys she knew, and getting the shit beaten out of him. Another one had clipped some punter, but when it came on top and he realised that while she was blowing him with one hand the other was sliding down the insides of his wallet, he had actually nicked her, and driven her to the police station himself. It amazed her that punters could get away with virtually anything, and the girls not. The law seemed to have an inbuilt bias towards the men, all the time.
After a short while sitting on a rubber mattress on a small raised concrete section up from the floor, the cell door had opened and two coppers had walked in. From their way of entering, she knew that this was going to be an ‘off the record’ chat. Good news, because that meant that as soon as she had told these cunts whatever they wanted to hear, the sooner she could get her arse out of there and back on the streets. Already she could eel herself coming down, not just from the crack, but from the heroin as well. She knew that as the withdrawal symptoms kicked in, her legs would become wobblier and wobblier, and her guts start opening up to make her shit herself in all the wrong times and places.
‘Ello Claire’ said the chubby Scottish sounding one, ‘My name is Bob’. His grin seemed to hang in mid air, like the picture she had once seen of the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland, the grin of the cat being the last thing to fade before its complete disappearance. The copper turned to his colleague, ‘And this is Alan’ The younger, slimmer one nodded, and they stood around where she sat, clucking and sweating, with her legs crossed in front of her.
‘What we’re looking for, Claire, is information. Who is dealing, where and how much. Who’s got the shooters. They’re big reward going, Claire.’
‘Money rewards’ said the slimmer.
‘And for pieces, the sky’s the limit’. A ‘piece’ was their word for gun.
‘So, who do you know that’s carrying, RIGHT NOW?’ said the Scot. Right now, in that Glaswegian guttural that so many of her punters had spoken in, whilst waiting for their trains to take them back up to Scotland. Some of them got so distracted it took them many years to find their way back home, if they ever did.
Some simply wandered round the streets of Somerstown, drunk and in a state of mindlessness, until someone attacked them or they got themselves arrested. Then it would be to the Ville for a spell, usually for six months, ready to be back out and on the streets in time for the summer season, once again. Many, many men that she had met lived their lives in accordance with this ancient clock, following the seasons like a herd of migrating animals.
She had spilled the beans on who she knew that was carrying, and where drugs were being dealt. She gave them the addresses of some of the crack houses she knew. They nodded to each other, and wrote down a phone number, a mobile.
‘Keep this number safe- or remember it, better still’ said the Scot.’ And don’t mention this to any other officer here, either.’ That told her there was something going on which involved other officers here in this station that were probably under suspicion. She herself had heard tales from some of the dealers about certain Old Bill they boasted they had in their pockets.
Then, they were off, and shortly afterward she was allowed to go, her belongings being handed back to her in a large see-through plastic bag, with Metropolitan Police in words and the logo stamped in translucent letters on the outside.
She couldn’t wait to get back to her spots on the beat as soon as possible. Luckily she had picked up a punter within minutes of stepping outside, and within half an hour she had scored, enjoying the smooth feel of the brown heroin move through her and wave its magical wand of power over her massively disjointed nerves. Phew, that felt better……
She had quite surprised herself. She still hadn’t tucked in to any of the remaining stones during the absence of the punter. Where the fuck was here, though? She thought, just then, that she could make out the sound of his car coming up the same steep hill they had had to climb in order to get here. Presumably the nearest cash machine was way down by what had proclaimed itself to be Archway Towers, where she had herself spotted a row of cash machines, lit up in a green luminescent lighting. What the fuck was he doing, trusting her with the run of his fucking drum, and having only just met her? It didn’t bear logical thinking. Claire had long since departed from the realm where so-called ‘normal’ thinking applied. She had known of just about every kind of madness imaginable from those who, like herself, smoked this stuff.
She had even heard of punters who would be smoking with girls, and the girls to walk out of their own places and leave them sitting there, with their kids, while they went out and picked up other punters, disappearing for days at a time. One such punter she had met, and, according to him, a girl called Hayley, that she actually knew, had bailed out of her own place in Archway only to return some two days later, simply having ‘forgotten’. Luckily the punter hadn’t called social services. Like a rare gem, he had actually sat there and looked after the kids – and fed them and changed them- in all that time. Some of the stories which Claire could recite were tales of the amazing aspects of human behaviour, on the side of good.
She could hear the front door downstairs slam. He was running up the stairs. Then, he was right there in front of her, puffing and gasping for breath.
‘Well, wotcha runnin’ for? Scared I was gonna nick off ya?’ she screeched.
‘No, no, not at all’ he replied, obviously relieved to finds that his new-found sense of trust hadn’t been totally misplaced. It was obvious that along the way he had had an opportunity to reconsider the wisdom of leaving a just-met street girl from King’s Cross in charge of his flat, with all the things in it. He glanced around the room, quickly noting that the CD player was still where it had been, as was the television. He saw the porno collection opened, along with the bondage gear.
He was staring to get embarrassed. Claire was amazed to see this clown actually blushing.
‘Anyway, let’s get back down to business’ she said.
Important to get moving- and keep things moving along- before Silly Bollox here had a chance to see them slow down. If she could keep the momentum going, she knew she could just keep smoking merrily away indefinitely. She might not even need to go back on the streets again for maybe a month, or so. If she could sit tight, play whatever role playing game Silly Bollox might want, and in the end clean him out on her way out the door. Then she could make it back to the Cross and start with a fresh punter. She had been through a fair view punters, leaving them when all the Charlie and smack had run out, sometimes even leaving them broken, weeping men on the side of the street as she strode off. Many of these wankers would be Love Freaks, falling under the spell of love which crack cocaine seemed to exert over them. These would start getting all sentimental after the first few blasts. This was always welcome- some girls didn’t mind giving out pussy after a good blast. But it was always a bonus if you could get as far as tricking the punter out of that. Some of them, when you got them started smoking, would find their big stiffies all turning into melting wax in her firm hands.
‘Let’s get nice and comfy’ shall we?’ she said, as soothingly as she knew. ‘you got the extra dosh there, ready for when we need it?’
His baby face nodded yes, quite pathetic, she noted, especially given what his likely outcome was going to be. She looked into his face and realised that it was either him or her. They were both trapped in a food chain. She had no choice but to eat him. It could all too easily have suddenly turned out the other way. Maybe one day that too would happen and she would step into the wrong car, or come back to the wrong house with the wrong punter. Perhaps that was inevitable, ultimately, because she only had so many lives, after all, and she kind of knew she was using them up at a ferocious rate.
‘Come on, I want you as a chick’ handing him some of his tranny gear with a strict expression on her face. Suddenly something deep inside him seem to go limp, and in a submissive way he took the set of bits and pieces out of her hands and trotted off to the bedroom. In the meantime, Claire thought about her likely course of action. Play it by ear. In an ideal world, part of her reflected, it was sad that what started out as a meeting of two strangers in the night should invariably end up as a collision between two trains crashing into each other, with all the casualties that this invoked.
But this was fate. So many punters would suddenly switch on her, right after they had blown their cum all over her face or up inside her arse or pussy, often becoming real savages, really aggressive, chasing her out with the bare money she had managed to eke out of them beforehand. Some even tried to take back the money she had earned, or, worse still, tried to rob her of that and everything else she had made that night up until then.
She looked around the room. Okay, she had sussed him out, mostly. This was going to be easy money.
‘Where’s the rest of the fackin’ money?’ she screeched, harshly. The harsher , the better, the more his tiny dick would be pulsating back to life, ready for those tasty clamps, she thought, smiling inwardly. She relished the rare pleasure of recruiting a slave. She would make this one beg, and beg long and hard into the night that was opening up its massive jaws around them.
But there was something she was missing. Somehow her eyes rested on the computer on its stand, over by the window. The view wasn’t bad, for what it was. The lights of London flickered, pulsating slightly brighter for a moment. Claire thought it was more likely the coke buzz coming back strong. Coke could be like that. You could do up a great pile and then sometimes you’d feel fuck all. Maybe a bit numb, only to have to main effect kick in much later, a really heavy snow storm, and blast you totally out of your head.
If only I could get into that fackin’ computer, she thought. Still, if she played this wank stain right, she would be moving into this place, and using it for her punters as well. What a true delight. She looked forward to getting Silly Bollox ready for his Ultimate Trip. She looked round at the pictures on the walls. Mostly they were a bit spooky, no not spooky, just very 70s man, really. Dragons, pyramids, one of a fackin’ dolphin, for crissakes. How fackin’ daft, a right wally, a fackin’ dolphin. You couldn’t get more muppety if yer tried.
She could make out a sense of movement from the bedroom. Probably Silly Bollox sliding into his frilly knickers. Heh heh, she thought about putting another pipe on. Heh heh, no, hold on yer old cow, the thought traipsed across her mind, try and stay in control this time. She was aware how she had screwed up many a good chance for big takings, only to end up running down the street with a nicked tenner out of some punter’s wallet. Popeye, one of the old yardie-style smokers from the Temple, one of the crack houses she was famous in, had on more than one occasion sat down with her, over a pipe, and gone into how she could maximise her takings, and bring a bit of business for him and the lads too.
His deep bassed Caribbean accent crooned, upped, and dipped as it went along in its persuasive, pervasive lilting tone, humming her into a trance as she listened to him.
‘Look here, dearie Claire’ he had said, ‘De best way of movin’ for you is to hold on, when you meet a punter that he have more dan a few bob to spare’. Refrain yourself from clipping he, and instead, give me a ring.’ He had written down his number on her hand, but he must have known it was pointless. Claire, like all too many girls, didn’t actually activate brain before acting. They grabbed whatever small change was available right then and there, and then ran for the punter’s front door. Very often the punter would let them go, all too painfully aware that he would be up on a rape accusation if he tried to interfere with the girl from leaving. Imagine the screams and shrieks from outside your front door, and, as you drew back the curtains, the sight of your neighbour struggling with a young girl that seemed to be trying to get away!
Popeye would regularly go through the same spiel with the young girls that drifted in through his place, and sometimes it would pay off. For some reason it was right then and there that Claire remembered his number. In a flash she could see the numbers as he had written them down in biro on the back of her hand. She picked up the punters phone and cursed herself for not having noticed the actual address as she had been coming in. maybe, she thought, soberingly, that had been why the Punter had been only too generous in plying her with crack during the car trip on the way over here. No, that was paranoid, she realised. He wouldn’t havhad to have done that- and if he had wanted to abduct her he had had ample chance to do so already. And walking out and leaving her in charge of the place wasn’t the normal sign of a control freak. Quite the opposite. No, she was going to be OK on this one, she found herself thinking. Hopefully.
‘What’s the address here?’ she called out.
There was a silence from the bedroom, and a sense of all movement or preparation suddenly coming to an end.
‘What do you want to know that for?’
Claire thought quickly.
‘I’m supposed to check in with my ………’she scrubbed out the word pimp--- that might give the game away and alert him to an upcoming robbery- instead she substituted the word ‘girlfriend.’ That made it sound more user friendly. If Silly Bollox had started thinking about a team of killer niggas on their way over for a friendly visit, it might interfere with his ability to relax and keep smoking.
‘Er, okay, if you must’ came back the earnest voice, sounding more than a little nervous now.
‘Yes, I must’ she said, putting some annoyance into her words. As if she could do anything else.
‘We run by a system here, you know’ she said. ‘We each of us have to check in with a girlfriend, and give the address, just in case a punter starts getting out of order. You must understand. There have been lots of girls disappearing from round the Cross. If you’ve got nothing to hide, you won’t mind, will you? Now, what’s the address of this place?’
‘Flat 6, 92 Hornsey lane, N.6’ came the answer. Perfect. It was all going to go like a dream.
She dialled Popeye’s number, and was met with his answer phone.
‘Look,’ she said, straight onto the answer phone. ‘It’s Claire. I’m with a punter, just letting you know where I am’. She caught herself in a mirror which the punter had had hung on the wall. It was a 1920s styled thing, with the green face of a goddess or something on one side, and a row of fruits encrusted in plaster around the edges. In the reflection she looked radiant, saintlike. It would be nice when Popeye showed. Then Silly Bollox could get into some submissive stuff for real. Oh boy, that was going to be a laugh. She couldn’t wait to see his face when the team turned up, hatchets a-swinging ready to roll on one when the bell rang and she would go to the door and let the Fiends From Hell in through the fackin’ front door. Hehehe.that WAS going to be fun.
She rattled off the address the Punter had given her, and then hoped she had got it right. If he had given her a wrong ‘un, and Popeye went to all that time and trouble, only to find himself having been given a bum steer, things could get decidedly unhealthy for her. The least she could expect would be a slap for not having checked the address herself.
Anyway, it was done now. So hopefully Popeye would get the message and soon be on his way. But you never knew with Popeye. Many a time he had tried to get her on this trip. But even if he did turn up and roll this guy, what was there to stop him rolling her, too? He might want to tax her on her earnings, or to charge her a handling fee, as it was sometimes called. On top of that, what had she done? Popeye would simply slash this guy and that would be the end of the matter. All she had to do was sit tight and keep taking the money and drugs off this Silly Cunthole. He had even been out to the cash machine again so as to keep them topped up, especially with drugs, as the long night ahead beckoned and would eventually turn into dawn.
She cursed herself for her own stupidity. Well, experience would teach her when discretion was the better part of valour. She had probably screwed up with this punter, she realised. A shame, really, because things had seemed to be going so well. Couldn’t have gone better, really. Eespecially with the drugs and the upcoming fantasy role plays. Christ, the punter even had all the sub dom gear lined up, ready to roll.
‘Bollox, she thought, I don’t give a fuck. Let’s get down to a abit more smoking and then let the fackin’ Devil himself appear and do what he wanted to. Fack it. If that meant blue murder, then so be it, she thought, smiling to herself, as she put another large lumpy piece of crack on the end of the pipe. Hhhhmmm, luverly, my old china………….as the flame from her lighter went crackle crackle and turned the white marble into black fume, tumbling down the tube of the bottle and hitting her lungs like a hammer.
Phew…………….that was a blast, for TRUE.
Instantly she saw how short-sighted in her thinking she had been. How negative! When life would always be bringing her a never-ending supply of punters like this one- how could she go wrong?And, with each punter that came her way, she would be functioning more experienced, more aware, more savy, MORE CRUEL. Ten times crueller, she thought, feeling a massive upsurge in cruelty springing up like an ill wind from somewhere deep inside her.
She had only once or twice felt that icy blast move inside her. All her life she had known of it, had feared it. Had feared what might happen should she ever let it out of its cage, let it free to roam inside her.
For somewhere deep within her, she knew what would happen. What was going to happen- tonight, maybe- who could know?
Then the Tranny was there in front of her. She hadn’t heard or noticed him come back into the room. It was dressed in a white bridal gown, slightly skimpy and with frills and lacy bits outrigged all over it. Over its face was a veil, beneath which the face, now heavily festooned with makeup, actually looked very feminine. The eyes were suddenly in possession of long, curvy eyelashes, and the lips were now a deep, satisfying dark red. The head was adorned underneath its lacy crown with a long blonde wig. On the fingernails was red nail varnish, giving the hands a blood-taloned, bird of prey kind of look.
Claire felt impressed. Most of the cross dressers she had come across turned themselves into absolute parodies of womankind, but here was an example of something that really worked. This was fairly convincing. There was something in the manner, too, which she found arousing. As she looked across at the bust, she was impressed to see a ripe pair of breasts heaving back, rising and falling gently. The legs were thinnish- veering more towards a schoolgirl’s than a mature woman’s. Still, that lent itself to some interesting variants later on in the evening!
The shoes were excellent- nice high red shiny 6 inch high heels- totally at variance with the demure, self-respecting image of the about-to-be –married section of the bride above. Hhhhmm, Claire thought to herself, this was beginning to come to life. This fantasy was beginning to take off. She broke off another chunk of crack for the Tranny and carefully placed it on the end of the pipe. Lighting it, she indicated for the Tranny to come in under the radarscreen and get her lips round the end of the pipe, which she did by semi-kneeling. That was a nice touch in itself, Claire thought. Get the Tranny to kneel for her hits. Hhhmm.a nice touch…..she thought, as the black sexy smoke went right down the tube into the Tranny’s throat. The look of exquisite ecstasy right then and there as the hit travelled straight through the blood and hit the high spots in the brain. It was like seeing whirlitzer lighting up, or a pinball machine coming on. Now, why don’t we stretch out in the bedroom, Claire said, when she saw that the hit was really going through the Tranny’s brain. Slowly at first, the Tranny got up and with Claire taking her by the hand, waltzed into the bedroom.
All round the side were mirrors, but above the bed was a picture of something out of a horror movie. It showed some goat-headed animal, not unlike the theme in ‘Alien’- with a reversed Five Pointed star made up out of unborn babies. The bedspread was wide and pink, and all along the dressing table were wigs resting in their polystyrene heads, forming an Pretorian Guard array of ministering spirits. It was slightly weird, Claire mused.If she had been tripping , she might well have imagined that these bewigged stands were actual people, or held their souls or spirits in some scary way.
She sat down on the bed, careful to let a piece of her pussy poke through the opening of her legs, her thin black skirt already riding up around her hips so naturally. This was a bit fuckin’ surreal. She looked on to the other side of the bed, and there was a row of gowns- ballgowns, outfits, nurses uniforms, schoolgirl uniforms, rubber outfits,; there must have been a small fortune standing there, like a row of soldiers, ready at an instance to march off and complete any given fantasy like the good loyal soldiers they were.
Resting right by the side of the bed was the box containing the instruments of pain, along with a collection of different whips and canes. The Tranny swivelled her hips and legs over onto the bed, and Claire reached out to start playing with the toys. Her hand picked up a thick leather strap, with braidings at the end. This was a wanker spanker, so-called because it gave maximum possibility to the spanking of the balls whilst the punter tried to manage a wank.
But Claire wasn’t having any of that. She dug deeper until she came across the rubber bands again. Yes, these were the babies to start off with.
Slipping a few out, she managed to gather up the Tranny’s cock and balls in one deft motion that encased them thoroughly as the nice submissive collection of canables that had ever graced her fuckin’ fruit bowl.
The spanker came into play, and with a swift motion brought it down right onto the meaty area of the balls.
‘Oww!’ shrieked the Tranny, in the high-pitched voice that Claire knew them to use when they were enjoying the role playing. Claire hacked off another good piece of crack, and gave the Tranny a blast.
The Tranny went deep and quiet for a moment, savouring the punishment. Claire’s eyes flickered over at the outfits. Hhhmm, the schoolgirl one looked tempting, she thought. And it would only take a moment to slip into it. Hehehe, just in time, too, before Uncle Popeye turned up with all those friendly meat cleavers.
Then we’d see who was taking the fuck.
As Claire slid into the uniform, she thought she’d slide one of the wigs on, too. The long dark haired curly one took her fancy. She relished the thought of Popeye getting his eyes popped as he walked through the door and saw her in full regalia. By then she’d have this clown nicely tied up and ready to get ripped apart. So why was she turning this job over to Popeye? All he’d do would be to take everything and leave her sitting there with fuck all except a corpse. The more she thought about it the crazier it seemed. Crazy to ring him up and let him take over. This punter was ideal, in every sense. Maybe she could even work out to stay with him. He might well be more then ideal- if she could stay it might help her get off the stuff, and then she could begin the long process of trying to get her kids back. Years ago, when she had started out smoking crack cocaine, they had come along and taken them off her, all too quickly.
And if Popeye really fucked this guy up, what then might happen? It might come out that she had been the one to set him up fro the robbery. And if Popeye- she didn’t know- but now that she thought more about it it seemed only too possible- actually killed the guy, she would be hunted on a murder charge. She realised that she had used the punter’s phone to call Popeye. That would come to light, surely. The more she thought about it the more likely it seemed that she was going to end up on a murder charge.
She felt herself sliding down into the most massive depression in history. It felt as though from nowhere the trapdoors of hell had suddenly been sprung and she was now hurtling down. Oh God……please….she found herself crying out…….. please…….. nooooo
Then she was suddenly back with the punter, feeling as sexy as ever……….she leaned back and opened her legs a bit more. Let her have a peek………..she rubbed her hand over the Tranny’s legs, feeling the stockings and suspender belts with her fingertips.
She didn’t even know this joker’s name, but then did it really matter?
This was lovely, this and moments like this. When the whole of the world slowed to a stop and became everything wrapped in the intensity of the feel of those lovely sexy stockings on the end of her fingers. So sweet and sexy….aaaahhhhh….she gasped in ecstasy as a wave of sheer pleasure swept through her.
She felt something slip, and the next thing she knew she was leaning on the side of the bed, her body keeling over, the bedcovers looming closer and closer. Ohhh the sexual kick of this stuff …..a wave of orgasm sprang up from within her and kicked outward, like the ripples from a drop of water falling into a still pond. She wasn’t sure if her breathing could keep up with what was happening with her body. The sexiest thoughts were blossoming in her brain, in her body, swelling like the openings of flowers in the sunlight, rows upon rows of petals, desires within desires within desires. Sexual feelings, kinkier and kinkier by the minute were blossoming and opening up, like a massive fireworks display. The thought that she might be overdosing flashed into her mind, but it came too late………too late……….too late for her brain to do anything but register ………the last impressions of feeling and vision before it finally clicked off and she was left in a well of darkness…………..
The Tranny stretched back and enjoyed the feel of the young girl’s fingers wandering all over the stockings. Now and again she would suddenly remember the cruelty that lay dormant within her and allow her fingers to slide up to where the fruit bowl lay wrapped up in rubber bands like a wild bird bound and awaiting its execution. Then, they would ease off into pinchy mode and start pinching out the pain. The spasms of ecstasy were incredible, turned into delectable moments of heavenly delight by the coke. The feelings of humiliation and submission awakened spread their wings like angels and took flight, going higher and higher. The Tranny wondered if she had ever been this high before. The crack was extra strong, and each further blast put forth by the girl whooshed her up further and higher into the clouds. She thought with a delightful feeling of shame about the pins and syringes which would be coming into play very shortly. Then the young girl could start with the safety pins first, running these through the skin- and foreskin- of the cock, then the balls, doing each pin back up nice and neat after it had been inserted. She looked forward to looking down and seeing a nice neat row of safety pins all piercing through the skin and shining, reflecting the subdued lighting like the helmets and shields of a row of gladiators in some ancient Coliseum.
That moment would be ecstatic, and she would then be able to look up into the face of this young maiden and see- hopefully- that most exquisite expression of hate and loathing looking back. The Tranny was so far away in this dream, that she didn’t even notice that the girl was no longer there. Where had she gone? For a second she wondered if she was even real-yes, she was sure she was- had she not even gone out and brought her back, from the Cross? From the side of the bed she heard a noise, or, rather a sense of movement of some kind. Pulling out of the deeply delectable revelries was a real downer, but the Tranny managed it, and swivelled to be able to look over the side of the bed. Down on the ground the young girl was having what looked like a fit. She was jerking her arms and legs, and she seemed to be both shitting herself and vomiting at the same time. The smells that suddenly hit the air just then made the Tranny jump up.
‘Fuck me’ he thought, suddenly back into his male aspect, ‘This one’s OD-ing’. Should I ring for an ambulance?, came the idea from nowhere, crossing his mind at sixty miles an hour and then vanishing out the other side of his head equally quickly. The idea of having to deal with an ambulance crew charging in here, with all these Class A drugs lying around, didn’t have any appeal. The police would automatically be involved, and charges would be brought for all manner of things. Even if the girl lived, it would mean a charge of providing drugs, and allowing his premises to be used for drug-taking. Then the Old Bill would sniff around even further, and maybe look on what he’d downloaded onto the computer. Even the ordinary magazine porno he had in his collection was enough to get him seriously nicked, he knew. If he ended up in jail, he could then expect a severe beating for being, what in prison talk, was ‘ a nonce’.
No, no, forget that idea.
As he looked down, the girl seemed to have emptied most of her bowels into a pile of excrement in between her legs. The stench was appalling. She lay crouched up in a ball, in the foetus position, with her hands till twitching by her sides, like two fish suddenly out of water, gasping for breath.
In one hand she still held tightly the glass bottle of her crack pipe. The Tranny prised open her tightly balled fist, and was able to pick out the wraps of crack and heroin that had been given to the girl for her entrustment. These would come in useful for later. When she came to. Because when she came to, the game would certainly reconvene, but on a slightly different note.
Claire’s body had gone by now into a general trembling, which told the Tranny that she was well into her overdose by now.
With a sigh, the Tranny swung her stockinged legs over the side of the bed and leaned down to be able to get a better grip on the quivering form beneath her.
With a heave she managed to get Claire more upright, and at least away from the twin piles of excrement and vomit.
The Tranny managed to get her to her feet, and started walking her up and down the bedroom.
‘Hopefully this will work’ she thought to herself. If it didn’t, well, there would be time to cross that bridge later, if it came to that.
Claire slowly…..desperately slowly, began to phase back to consciousness.
Bit by bit she was able to place a bit more weight on her own feet, and less reliance on her arm around the Tranny’s neck, the Tranny’s arms bunched up around her waist to keep her upright.
Groggy…..but by now aware that something like this had happened to her, Claire tried talking, but gave up when she seemed to run out of energy and no words came. Only a vaguely audible grunt which seemed to come of its own volition from somewhere inside her chest.
She looked down at her right hand, which was empty, the pipe which reflex-like she would clutch come hell or high water, was nowhere to be seen. Instantly it became the single most important thing in her universe.
She tried to voice her concern……but the Tranny that was moving her up an down…up an down……..the corridor outside the bedroom now that her feet and legs were regaining their strength and the space in the bedroom was becoming too limited.
What had happened? She tried to think. Somehow she seemed to know, with the kind of intuition and ability to Know that those of the street sometimes seem to possess in vast quantities.
Claire thanked whatever gods had watched over her for the comforting presence of the Tranny. In the bosom of this strange, luxuriant that she had come across, was a caring, compassionate being. She leaned on the shoulder of this being, feeling the soft feminine skin under the thin lacy lines of the black bra and silky baby doll outfit she felt, more than any ‘normal’ male punter; she could let down her defences and begin, perhaps, to learn to trust again. From far away, she could begin to make out the words that lay buried in the soothing sounds that this creature was making.
Her breathing was slowing down, and the shakes were fading. The trembling in her hands was receding, and she instinctively tried to make sure that her stash of gear and cash was still there inside the right cup of her bra. She raised her hand to check, but just then the Tranny gave her a meaningful glance, and she thought better of it. She tried to tune in with her body sensation, and wasn’t sure if the stuff was still there. But she thought it was. Otherwise it would look as though the Tranny had deliberately spiked her, maybe to rob her, maybe to immobilise her.
But that wasn’t likely, she decided. Otherwise she would be coming to not like this but in the bottom of a dark cellar somewhere, where the sound of her cries for help would not carry very far, and her kidnapper could begin to gloat over his new prize.
Claire breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow she knew that from the way she was living her life, there was always going to be a possibility that she might one day met the Punter from Hell, the one that it would be to come along and snuff your life out from you. This character was the real bogey man of the drug scene she frequented, and many of the girls she knew from working the beat had tales about how they had managed to escape from someone, or somewhere. Chilling stuff, but in the end it just became an occupational hazard to be dealt with if and when it ever surfaced. By and large, though, as a working girl you had to at least feel a bit lucky to start with, otherwise you were never going to have it in you to start leaping into and out of men’s cars, touting for pieces of money with which to get their habits sorted that night.
It took more than a little bit of guts to do that, yet when you got into the swing of it, it all seemed so fucking natural, so commonplace. You had a few seconds to scan the punter over, from when his car slowed down to how he would talk with you. Any signs of nervousness or shiftiness weren’t too bad, usually. A lot of the punters were like that, on the prowl for some nice young twat to fuck, bored with some fucking ancient cunthole back home in the form of the Wifey. It was when punters started trailing in twos or more that the warning signs for rape and abduction cut in. Some girls didn’t care- they just jumped in and did however many punters they came across in the backs of vans and even trucks. Claire herself remembered some of her friends getting out of vans as they pulled onto the side of Goods Way by the railway station, the girls wobbly from just having been fucked by ten or more punters, all cheering and jeering from inside the back of their vehicle.
Then, all too often, the working girls’ pimps would dart out and snatch the money off them, making them go out and get more business, even when the girls were exhausted, ready to drop from being fucked by armloads of punters, spunk trickling out their pussies and down their legs. Some punters really like the girls that way. They called it getting their meat properly seasoned with the stains of other men’s seed all over them, in their mouths and fingers, the heady odour of spunk in their clothes, spraying pheremones into the air. Many punters loved their girls that way, nice and creamy.
Claire’s mind drifted back to where she was, being propped up by the soft shoulder of this Tranny, noticing the thin sexy lace strap of the women’s bra, the scent of some expensive perfume trailing in the air just underneath her nose, noticing for the first time how soft and beguiling it was. A wonderful doorway of gentleness and steadiness opened up for her then, drawing her in to the world of this mythological being. It would be nice to really get to know this creature. Maybe they would become two good sisters together. Claire wondered if she hadn’t somewhere along the line seen a film about something like this, where a transvestite befriends a working girl from the streets. Was it set in Brazil, or somewhere? Over the last few years she hadn’t had any time at all for films, nor anything from her former life. Neither her kids, her former friends, nothing- everything had been displaced by the never-ending treadmill of running to feed her crack and heroin habit. Yet other girls that worked maintained their children, were able to keep their relationships going, look after their health, go to their select gyms. Why not she? She didn’t know, she couldn’t say. A deeper breath moved through her and she came back to being walked up and along the corridor again, past the toilet and bathroom. She recognised these rooms, and as they came back together along the passageway the Tranny moved her into the bathroom, and sat her on the side of the bath. Instantly she felt where she had soiled herself underneath, and began to feel the first pangs of shame. Now it started to come back to her what had happened. She had just had that really big smoke, and the blast from that had just creased her over, like a piece of paper being folded in half. That was when she had crumbled inside and just flipped over onto the floor. She recalled her heart suddenly speeding up, frantically hammering inside her chest like a bongo drummer gone mad. The recollection of the bile in her stomach backblasting and spurting up suddenly through her throat and out her mouth came back. It had hit with such a force that there hadn’t been any time for her to find somewhere to direct that spray, only right in front of her, in fact, as she looked now over her front, she could see that for the most part it had just emptied itself out down her top. Her arse, too, had simultaneously exploded, releasing a huge pile of liquid shit. Form where it had come she had no idea. She hadn’t eaten for days, and only rarely had to take a shit. That such an amount of shit should have been stored up inside herself by her own body seemed incredible in itself.
The Tranny reached beyond her and began running the water. Claire felt the heat of the water from the red-topped tap, and then the Tranny’s hands were picking up a packet of bath salts, and dropping these into the water.
Still hardly able to move, she felt the Tranny’s directions rather than heard them, as she allowed herself to be shepherded into the water, peeling off her rotten and soiled clothes and letting the Tranny take them away. Take them away, she thought. For sure the Tranny would give her replacements when the time came. Mind you, if she played her cards right, that time might be a lot farther off than she might at first have supposed, when this punter’s car had first slowed down and she tumbled inside it. The Tranny went out, slightly puling the bathroom door to to afford her some element of privacy and leaving her to enjoy the silence and feel of the water gently lapping at the sides of her body. It had been ages since she had had a bath.
Claire tried to think back as to when that had been. She couldn’t remember. Several weeks, at least. When things got busy and she went on a roll the days, weeks, months even flew by.
Some girls would find that years, even, might have passed before they came down and had to pick themselves up from where they had last exited from their lives. Many would return to homes that had long since been abandoned, to children long since taken into care.
The high of crack cocaine was wonderful, but the come down was the most awful mockery in the world.
Slowly the water seeped into her, restoring her with its own magic and bringing her back to life. The bath salts, too, had their desired effect, and Claire felt the sense of a profound and natural warmth of relaxation sweep through her. What, she wondered, was going to happen now? She suddenly remembered the crack and heroin wraps, and feared that while she was sitting in this fucking cunthole of a place, old Tranny Bollox was lifting off, hitting up the last of the gear, laughing her fucking tits of as to how silly cunt here was sitting in a fucking bathtub. She suddenly felt unbelievably stupid, and could almost imagine all her girlfriends from the Cross laughing their tits off at the very idea of her being a complete muggings and getting smoked out of all that precious gear.
Cunthole, Claire said to herself, as she tried clambering up and out of the side of the bathtub.
Cunthole- I’m a cunthole, eh? She wondered, almost aloud, for Claire rarely talked with people other than herself, or the imaginary people that inhabited her world.
A red rage flared through her, as mental picture of the Tranny sitting there on her fucking throne in her stockings presented itself, with her red shiny high heel shoes tipped at their ends. As she looked up she could see all the last of the gear going down Tranny Bollox’s throat, and she wanted to reach out and strangle the cunt out of her. Her? It! This ‘thing’ wasn’t a fucking woman. It was a perverted piece of shit that deserved death. The fury that suddenly boiled up in her almost choked her, and her body gave off another little spasm of reaction as she came steaming out of the bathroom, the water still in the bath, and rivulets running off her as she pulled back the bastard door. Into the hallway, she looked up and down for any sign as to what was going on in the place. It all seemed so unbelievably quiet. Nothing stirred. The fury that tore through her began to abate a little, but now it turned into a cold fury, one in which she was capable of doing something extreme. She kept silent, and remained motionless.
Where was this fucking freak?
How long had she been in the bath? An hour? Two? No, not so long, maybe half an hour. Then she remembered that this freak was a real freak that had gone out and even left her in charge of the place while more money was amassed from a cash machine. Maybe Tranny Bollox had popped out, yet again. Well, this time he was in for a rude awakening. Claire resolved to have a look round this drum, in a way she hadn’t fully had a chance to before.
She moved carefully down the corridor, and noticed a flight of steps running down. They were wide and, she noticed, made of stone, and seemed to go quite far down where they disappeared into the shadows. Treading gingerly she made her way down the cold steps to where she could now begin to hear what sounded like a vague humming sound.
Popeye sat in a darkened room with his mouth full of plastic wraps. He could sit for hours- days, even- like this, patiently, waiting like some ancient Venus flytrap plant or some insectoid creature, the kind that has a long retractable tongue capable of flicking out quickly and catching smaller insects. He had been motionless like this for some two hours already. The last customer to call in to the flat had been a working girl, some new seventeen year old piece of stuff recently come down to London to make her fortune. Instead, she had discovered the joys of the world of crack cocaine, and was busy shovelling as much of this drug into her system as she could. It was like it was going out of fashion for some of these punters. She had appeared at the bottom of the steps and tapped on the side window. Taking a quick peek out the side he had recognised her, and shouted for the clown on the front door to let her in. Some hulking piece of human wreckage had shuffled, Frankenstein monster- like to the door and pulled back the intricate system of levers and bars which made up the reinforcements and heaved it open wide enough for her to slide in and glide down the hallway. There was barely any lighting in the place- all the bulbs had run out and not been replaced by anyone. Only a pale glow from the kitchen gave any illumination. He smelt her as she came in- things were going well for her- the punters that crawled round the Cross were always keen to get their fangs on one of the newer girls. Lovely, to sink their fat dicks into some nice fresh cunt and spunk fiercely into it. The cunt as well was as keen as mustard. The middle class women were the only ones who didn’t know what was going on. The wankers who couldn’t get any dicky themselves and who inwardly knew they had been replaced with younger models. The left-overs.
Haley was her name. She stepped into the dark room, where he sat in an armchair by the side of a bed. Things were obviously going well for her- the perfume was probably something from one of her regulars. Ohohooo……..maybe one of them was in love with her. This often happened, especially, increasingly, with muslim boys, who couldn’t get pussy in any other way. More men than liked to admit to it had difficulty in securing a regular pussy flow. Not with their fucking useless wives, who didn’t know the sharp end of a dickie from the blunt end.
Haley was a cockney girl that had managed to get herself a tiny flat off Copenhagen Road, where a big bunch of council flats lay sprawled on their way up towards Highbury, where the rich barrister class heralded by Tony Blair lived, protected by their small fleet of unmarked police cars which circled their area.
Popeye had already marked her place out as a possible future crack dealing den. For the time being this one was alright. Though, and easily brought in several hundred pounds profit a night. Out in the kitchen shuffled the human wreck whose place this had once been. Popeye had been able to get in here by giving the poor clown a smoke, then another, then plotting himself out in the guys front room, then giving him a little more to smoke and getting the bedroom. Now it was all his. The guy’s spirit was totally broken- he had the beaten look of a poor wanker written in his face. Steve his name had once been- a white boy. This council flat had once been his mother’s. She had died, and somehow this wanker had been able to keep it on, possibly by not informing the council. If he had, they would probably have had him out in a flash. After all, you don’t get to have property rights with council stock! Steve now would sit huddled in what had once been his kitchen, humbly waiting for the flash punters with money to come rolling by and sit there, puffing smoke in front of him, some of them- the girls were really keen on this- puffing it right into his face, like the cheeky cock sucking whores they were. To the winners the spoils. Now that he had allowed a dealer in, there was no going back. Finders keepers, losers weepers. Steve’s humble way always aroused the ire of Lady Jane, as she called herself.
She took a special delight in humiliating him n front of others when they came round for a smoke. She totally delighted in paining him, imitating his whining voice as he would beg punters for a small smoke. He would sit there, night after night, day after day, not moving, too scared to go out, in case someone came by when he did and scored, and had a smoke that he might have been a part of if he had stayed put.
Popeye didn’t pout up with that situation for very long, though. He would load the guy up with wraps and make him trawl up and down the riskiest roads in the Cross selling the gear. He had to be careful not just about the Old Bill, but even more so with regard to getting turned over by Blaggers. If that happened, he would himself be liable to any losses, quite apart from getting cut, which would be an additional part of the punishment. It once happened. Or so Steve had insisted. He vanished for the best part for a day and a night- then returned to the flat really blasted out of his head. It was obvious that he had smoked up all the shit, and tried to say he had been robbed. Popeye went mad, and started slamming into hi