Back Alley Cats

Chapter 4 - The cavalry and the chivalrous

Chapter 4 – The Cavalry and the Chivalrous

Valiant is the man who takes a leap of faith. Imprudent is the fool who jumps in without looking.

Life plays a lot like Chess. It takes place in a series of squares. Steps can either be on black or white. And much like the game, one should know their limits for there are boundaries, there are rules.

Pawns typically draw first blood and are the first to go down. Only when the dust settles do we truly understand their importance. Knights take point with their shining armor. They wield swords and strike down opponents with deft precision. The high palace walls of which there is no escape is where the Rooks dwell, guarding and waiting anxiously for stray victims. Moving with deception, gaiting ceremoniously, and snaring the unwary with trickery are the malevolent Bishops. And holding their own, sitting idly in their thrones as the bloodbath ensues are the King and Queen. Each play a role in order to achieve a common goal: Domination.

Fifty years forward and the same chess pieces are still on board. However, they are outnumbered by a new breed of pawns: brave pugilists who wear tight corset tops and skimpy bottoms. Beauty is their armor, tongue is their sword. Some wield chains, cuffs, whips, even thongs. Some wear nothing at all. Men pool at their feet, dubbing them the bringers of salvation.

The best of their kind live at the heart of Goldenpond Island, and they do not need a chessboard to prove their worth. They may be considered pawns in this business of carnal pleasure, but be warned, do not pity the whores. There is pride in a job well done.

“…facial hair, babe.”

“…my age, or is that a yes-yes?”

“…yes to a life with you.”

“…like the sound of that.”

“Yeah, I too baby.”

The voices are faint as they travel up and seep through the wooden slits of the overhead mirror.

“Gran, can they hear us?” asks a juvenile, yet enthused voice.

“No, child, they certainly do not,” a matronly voice responds.

“What is this called?” asks the young girl as she skates her fingers over the gilded edge.

“It is called a two-way mirror, my dear.”

“Will you watch me too?”

“Time will tell, my sweet child.”

The girl smiles at the woman, then slumps on her stomach with her toes up as she continues to watch the Rabbit and the Regent in the room below.

Two bodies drenched in sweat grind treacherously, making the glasses clink and the wine barrels thump. Their spirits lost in the throes of passion.

“You have five minutes. Make it count,” she moans under muted breath. Her dark eyes arrest his blues, commandeering him to f**k her faster.

“Oh, Parsley, you are very beautiful,” the man murmurs his satisfaction to numb his howls.

“By the Gods!” she wails as she sinks herself with a desire that can only be described as wanton.

Her right hand fists into his golden locks, the other resting on his sun kissed shoulder. He wears a beautiful varnished complexion made possible by days in the sun. He is Achilles without the cursed heel, “Titus, do you woo me to claim free s*x and save your enormous balls?” she questions as her body gyrates perpetually on top of him. The young man is in a daze as he throbs deliciously beneath her.

Her fingers fall between his as she possesses him with pulsating thrusts. Their bodies quicken as they ride a heated frenzy of punch-drunk-lovemaking. Titus cannot think straight at the moment. All his concentration is attuned to the activity that his other ‘head’ is engaged in.

“Ugh. Yes, and yes,” he hisses through clenched teeth. The bliss of having her on top of him is a blessing he prays for every day. His control weakens at the sight of her succulent peaches flailing on his face. His mouth closes around one of them, suckling feverishly at the sweet fruit. Her body jolts at the contact of his hot wet tongue.

“Aah! Do you expect me to always fall for this?” she gasps and brings her face down. She pushes her tongue to part his mouth. They kiss at an angle where one is domineering while the other is submitting. And in this case, Parsley’s the one dominant.

“Hmm…” he moans against her mouth. He slowly retracts from the kiss, “Yes, and with hope that you will fall for me too,” he professes as he pushes her down his length. She stretches to make room but there is not much to spare, so she whines in pain.

Titus’ mouth drops open, “You. Are. Tight.” His disjointed breaths become more ragged as he fills her to the hilt, possessing her, satisfying her, making her his.

“Two minutes,” she gasps the time.

“Oh no,” he darts a look of concern.

Titus is a manservant who stirs her deeply. Parsley is a wench who gives him a free ride. They engage in carnal activity such as this during late afternoons, behind the shadows of the wine cellars. She enjoys reckless frivolity with him, but then suffers long baths of melancholy. She knows that at the end of a long day, she can never give him her heart.

Her eyes widen in horror, “Titus, wait!”

“Pars— I am, ugh~!”

A glass goblet falls and shatters to pieces as they burst together, bodies convulsing tightly and quietly as they push against the barrels.

His right hand grabs at Parsley’s hips to cease their movement, his left covers her mouth, “Ssshhh…” he shushes as he quietly unloads inside of her, expelling in strong warm bursts – an impulse that Parsley greatly regrets when it first happened … a week ago.

She snakes a hand between her wet thighs to clump her essence, her other removing Titus’ hand from her mouth, “Clean up after. Now, you must feed,” she commandeers the one she loves.

His tongue swirls around her fingers, lapping at the glistening promise of yet another sunrise. “Thank you. You have my gratitude.”

Quarters in the estate arehefty, lush, and densely furnished. The corridors, foyers, and walls interplay between the oldest colors of rose and the newest shades of green, as is the furniture. Kinky poster beds, hardwood desks, and opulent settees are a staple in every playroom, only varied by the colors in which they reside.

Down the main hall near the gardens is the Alley Cat Emporium, a hub of knowledge. A room crammed with mischief practices, erotic books, and select historical manuscripts. Its walls are painted white, a stark contrast to the dark souls that dwell within its confines. Candles with flickering tongues of fire line its windowsills during days when dark clouds cover natural light. Adjacent to it is the Pain Room, where no dust ever settles as tools of kinky fuckery frequently change hands.

Parsley goes down the elegant sweeping staircase, hands skimming the gilded metal balustrade. Her eyes appreciate the old rosette walls studded with gilt-edged myriad photographs as she descends. She still reels at the sensation of her illicit tryst. She has the mind to surreptitiously creep up the opposite staircase from where the wine cellars are, just to cover her tracks. A smile lifts her cheeks. She has the after-s*x glow of a sated woman.

“Where is Titus?” she inquires with frivolity and excitement.

The cat behind the mahogany desk hesitates, but finds the courage to speak her mind, “He is inside Lady M’s v****a, fixing some clogged pipes,” she frowns.

Parsley’s glow leaves her face at the thought of Titus plumbing the wrong ducts. She shivers in disgust. Her heart pumps with rage at the intimation she feels is misdirected. The attention that is supposed to be hers, and hers alone, is being taken by an old hag no less. Her errant thoughts paint a picture of her taking a knife to Moreau’s heart, plunging deeply, twisting at the tubes.

Felicia molds her hands around Parsley’s tight knuckles, inviting her to lean closer. Parsley does conspiratorially, “You fancy him,” Felicia conspires close to Parsley’s ears.

“I do, but—” She stops in the middle of her clause. Her mind clings to reality as the allusion quickly fades away. Their late afternoon trysts are a welcome distraction. However, now more than ever, it is time for discretion. She wonders if a life with him will remain a fantasy; a daydream that they can only share in the afternoon. But no matter, it is a beautiful dream nonetheless.

“Parsley?”

She snaps from her trance upon hearing the secretary cat’s snippy voice.

“Yes. Apologies, I am—”

“Conflicted, distracted, and utterly perplexed … I know,” she finishes for her. Felicia clearly understands her pain.

A book is mostly judged by its cover. When it is bland, people do not notice. Too loud, people tend to underestimate. Hence, gems such as Felicia are overlooked. It is such a shame for she is no book. Parsley purses her lips in dismay, “No. I am a complete airhead,” she exhales, frustrated with herself for reeling at the thought of her and Titus spending a life together when it’s clearly nothing but a pipedream.

“No you’re not. Come on, try me,” the cat tightens her grip around Parsley’s hand, her eyes gleaning for information, “We are sisters in this trade. Spill the milk, or the beans,” she encourages with reception and humor.

Doubt shadows Parsley’s eyes. She is uncertain if the truth will do any good. Hell, she doubts if it will mean anything at all, “I am with child,” she confesses and the world around her stops.

Felicia’s eyes get bigger, in the same manner they did when Cotton snapped at her not too long ago, “Inconceivable. How are you certain?” she musters in a beat below her normal octave.

Parsley’s gaze drops even lower, making her chin rest between her sternums, “I have been off my pills for two weeks, and counting.”

The cat drops a search for Parsley’s name on the computer. The findings return zero bookings for two consecutive days, “The two days I can understand, but the ones before … how did you—”

“I dismount at the last second,” she explains curtly, as if it is enough to answer the question.

“Clever. Okay, Ms. Timekeeper, how do you intend to resolve this matter?” Felicia’s look is of genuine concern. She evidently understands her trouble.

Parsley lifts her chin, yet her eyes are still weak, “I shall elope with Titus,” she says convincingly. The words surprise even her. The utterance is an impulse she does not regret.

Felicia’s eyes grow smaller with worry, her lips shrink in fear. “Does he know this?”

Parsley shakes her head in response. She wonders what Titus will make of this if he knows.

“Your paws prowl over thin ice. Your valiant nature is astounding. But your imprudence will cause you your head,” she condemns under hushed voice. Hers is a kind of tough-love.

Parsley does not want to hear more of it. So she strides towards the direction of the Alley Cat Emporium. She resolves to read more manuscripts about Ruptured Histories. Not that she wants to bother herself with details about the Rupture’s fifty-year timeline. But she hopes to glean information regarding the geography of nearby islands. The knowledge may prove useful should she and Titus abscond.

Static blares through the speakers,“Service No.: 14692. Parsley from Havencrest, you are called,” announces a voice through the clunky old wooden amplifiers mounted in each corner of the Emporium.

Ten years after the Rupture marked the opening of the Back Alley Cats Pub. Its first five years was not a walk in the park. Builders had to work tooth and nail to erect the manor to the glory that it is now. A lot of men died building its structure. Thousands were sacrificed for a few hundred to live.

The operation picked up good business only after five years when physicists and bioengineers reconstituted the power grids. They used blueprints from decades past, bypassing the damage the cosmic waves dealt to what is left of the Earth’s power supply.

In the beginning, their efforts with circuits and technology were for naught. It was a struggle for convenience; a challenge to reacquaint the world to a basic need – the need for electrical power. Growing frustrated with artificial methods, they decided to revert to nature. They went organic and processed whale oil to become what it is now: a source of alternative fuel, a potent source of energy for “The Arc”.

The Arc is a makeshift power grid which secretly operates within the watchtower of Goldenpond Island. Similar arcs were built in nearby islets, but they were not as successful. A lot of muscle is required to manufacture whale oil into viable power; a workforce that Goldenpond never runs out of.

Boatmen scour the open sea, searching for the elusive beasts. Once found, metal nets are cast both from the main ships and smaller boats. Once caught, they secure them with hooks. They take a giant metal claw to its tail to hoist the creature. The whales bellow as men drop them onto the deck. Their weight make the ships sit low, rocking from side to side as the men sail to shore. Hauling the animals off the ships is just as difficult a task as it is to capture them. No small feat for the biggest of mammals.

Once shored, the men cut into their thirty-five ton flesh, carving out potent fat for fuel. Butchers botch and filter the impurities to refine it to the specifications required by The Arc. Remarkably, a whale’s physiology is well worth the trouble, more so when their contribution began lighting up homes.

And so today, Felicia’s voice can be heard through the chunky wooden speakers, announcing names of wenches with their assigned service numbers.

Parsley stomps her way toward the secretary cat, “I thought you said I do not have any bookings?”

“This just in … The cavalry has arrived,” Felicia hands her the menacing Formica clipboard.

~~~Back Alley Cats Pub Order Slip~~~

Input Client Specification: tight lips [match]

Service No.: 14692

Wench Name: Parsley

Birth Island: Havencrest

Attributes: Shoulder length dark raven hair done in shocked spiky uneven cut, unruly fringe over dark mascara eyes, tight lips, and pale alabaster skin, slender with sharp curves; uncharacteristically gentle, subdued, reclusive.

Client Name: Tank Grammont

Designation: Royal Guard, first-class

Preference: Top, Dominant, Sadist

Implement(s): Butterfly n****e clamps, Suction handcuffs.

~~~Back Alley Cats Pub Order Slip~~~

Bigheaded, crooked, and fiercely loyal to the High Regent are the Royal Guards. They are walking signboards for discipline, pride, and courage; a dangerous combination. Efficient, harsh, and without mercy are their actions. Not once have they lost a fight. Few can best their expertise.

“Tight lips? That description is obtuse. It can mean a lot of things,” she retorts. Her mind dictates her duties yet her heart cries her needs. She does not want another man. She only wants Titus.

“Five minutes,” reminds Felicia. The cat’s reminder strums a melody in her heart. Five minutes … she and Titus shared plenty of those behind the wine cellars, every single day of the week for the past three months. If only she can stretch it to more than just five minutes a day. Then maybe, just maybe, she will find the courage she needs to brave the outside world. And hopefully accept his love.

Parsley examines the required implements. She knows that this session is not an ordinary one. Suction handcuffs require the use of a bath; unconventional, indeed it is.

“I shall report back in an hour. Please, should you hear from Titus, I—”

“…you need to know,” Felicia cuts in.

“Thank you,” she avows midstride.

“Parsley, remember to follow orders,” the cat forewarns.

The wench nods her head, and then walks away with a heavy heart.

She fidgets with her hands as her eyes follow the long hand of the clock. Tick tock, tick tock. Three minutes.

Parsley was hailed Timekeeper once. This was when an outage cut down the power for a week. It was horrible. Felicia had to practically scribble everything on parchment, which she then made electronic copies of when The Arc came bouncing back.

Parsley’s precision and timekeeping skills worked in her favor during all those afternoon shags with Titus. She has become so attuned to the activity that she can tell the moment a man’s pulse would spike. Her body knows the exact millisecond when to thrust hard when a man catches his breath. She understands when to pull out when a client is about to come.

Hence, her clients of two weeks did not impregnate her, well, until a week ago when she got careless with Titus behind the wine cellars. She is talented, yes. Thus, her skill is a precious commodity, a rarity, a valuable gem indeed. In the words of Lady M, “Parsley is a black widow within a leviathan’s body. She is a lot like her mother, but she does not know this yet.”

She drapes herself over a ceramic settee in the Steam Room. This reclusive haven is a mermaid’s paradise. It is a cavernous dome of tarnished gold, jade, and butterscotch Grecian tiles. The intrepid flooring surrounds a shallow circular pool; in the middle of which are two naked sculptures of women, their bodies intertwined, their hands bearing jugs where water flows out from. Gilt-edged spirals are embedded in the middle of the ceramic settees. An unnecessary design exploit, but a necessary convenience when paired with chains and cuffs.

Her fingers whip the dark spiky fringe off her eyes as she ogles the beams of light emanating from the holes in the ceiling. The lights come from the Botanical Gardens right atop the Steam Room. Rays shine over the naked sculptures, dancing over the water, making it glisten and shine. The sculptures remind her of her mother, Callista. They share the same alabaster skin and slender body. And just like her mother, she is a leviathan. She reeks of danger and poison.

They had to part ways the day after Parsley got her first menstruation. Her mother was inconsolable since. The last she heard from her is from gossip. Whispers talk of a woman with dark raven hair at the shores of Goldenpond. The rumors were all Parsley needed. She knows her mother is still alive.

Seconds …five, four, three, two, one.

The doors whisk open to a man who is built like a tank; he has a fitting name, indeed. He dons a decked out pompous Royal Guard ensemble: a corsair hat, thick blue button down military jacket lined with red cuffs at the wrists, tarnished gold buttons from the neck down, and yellow nankeen trousers tucked tightly in camel combat boots.

“Tight lips?” Tank snorts in a British accent.

Parsley nods, “British?” she validates.

“You got it, love,” he authenticates.

He too is a rare breed. There are only a handful of British left in the world. He is of blueblood.

She fixes her eyes upon a golden falcon insignia on Tank’s right lapel. It is clear that the brute is designated as Royal Guard first-class. She quickly composes herself to the thought, “I hope this fits your specifications, Sir,” she gestures around the room with an eloquent flourish.

“Absobloodylutely,” Tank looks around then drops his gaze back to the serpent by the pool, “I asked for tight lips. And I’m not talking about the one in your face,” he darts wickedly.

Parsley trembles from the inside. She keeps the discomfort to herself as her eyes flit the clock. Fifty-five clicks, she tells herself as she counts down the minutes.

“I completely understand, Sir. As I have said, I hope this fits your specifications,” she repeats whilst unlacing the corset to free her bosoms, and then she parts her legs to give Tank a view of her wet horizons.

Tank gasps at the sight of muscle. Parsley is riveting. His heart suddenly thumps an erratic pace as he stomps towards the black widow. His fists tighten with urgency as he takes the implements from the small pillar by the pool, “Arse about face, sweetheart,” he commands with haste to which Parsley responds with swiftness. She understands British slang. There is a book on Ruptured Cultures in the Emporium. She has read it from cover to cover.

So she turns around, readying herself to be taken from behind. She has snared his victim in her web. All she has to do now is spin around him, leaving the bloke shattered and senseless. Fifty minutes.

Parsley positions herself carefully down two steps where the pool’s water begins. She grabs at the edge of the slippery ceramic, her long fingers securing her balance. She can feel all the blood go up her brain as she lays tilted on her stomach.

“Jesus … it’s been a bloody long day out there. I really need a good bonk,” Tank fumes impatiently as he fumbles with his gritty clothes.

She can hear him undress quickly, buttons snapping everywhere. A smile lifts her cheeks. This won’t be long, her subconscious assuages. Forty-five minutes.

Tank’s grubby hands viciously palm her breasts, hardening the tautness between fingers. His body quivers at the touch of plump cheeks sandwiching his erection, “Ungh…” he grunts. He brings the Butterfly n****e clamps to her sides, securing them around her. The butterfly chains skate over Parsley’s back. She is like a horse that is about to be ridden by a tank.

He tugs at the reins, causing currents of pleasure to electrify her. She groans quietly in her throat, disgusted at the touch that is not Titus’. All she can think of is him. Her mind conjures a vision of him in place of Tank. The image puts her at ease. She relaxes. Forty minutes.

Vapor spews from steam nozzles enclosed within corners of the room. He leans over her back. Their skins prickle with sweat as the heat makes them blush. His trembling hands fasten the Suction handcuffs around her wrists. And then swiftly lathers each cup with a tad of water before having them suctioned onto the ceramic. She is immobile over moving water.

She spreads her legs, giving him a better view of her flushed fanny. Her mind deliberately slips past the usual formalities. She does not need to bother herself with the BAC handbook, for she knows too well what the man craves. And it is not talking. It is full-on f*****g.

Their sensitized skins clash as Tank pummels her. He is hard and soft at the same time, a heady combination. His strikes are urgent and deliberate. He pounds into her like a jackrabbit, hard and quick, “Jesus Harold Christ! Oh my wanker!” he bellows as her muscles clench around him. Thirty-five minutes.

“You slag!” he barks as he boinks her senseless. The left suction cup comes off, shaking her balance. Her left arm plummets out of equilibrium, causing her to hit her head on the ceramic. She bleeds, “Christ! Sorry about that,” he grunts an apology, yet his body does not cease from ravishing her mercilessly.

“I am fine. Just f**k me,” she seethes with fury through the grit of her teeth.

Tank sinks deeper as his body struggles against control. He does not have enough left to keep himself from erupting, “You. Are. One. Fine. Tart,” he pants with each thrust. Thirty minutes.

“Sir, I am—” She feels herself near. Tank takes this as his cue to ram faster like an enraged bull. They fiercely inhale frayed breaths and exhale ragged ones. They are one f****d-up mess over shallow waters.

He quickly pulls out and takes his tortured plonker in his hands, wringing it violently, “Ungh! By the Gods…” His vision whitens as he ejects to water what feels like tadpoles. His balls tighten as his groin constricts and convolutes deliciously. He is wasted and spent, but utterly sated.

Parsley agonizingly arches her back to finger herself to a quiet finish. She reaches completion then takes her sticky hand to his wanting mouth. He laps at her gift, his lips glistening with her essence, “You have my gratitude. Can I give you a bell sometime?”

“Yes, you can call for me, anytime.”

“Heard anything?”

“Pars, you’re bleeding,” Felicia almost jumping from her seat as she darts Parsley with a look of apprehension.

Parsley brushes off the blood from her hairline as if it is nothing, “I am fine. Titus. Where is he?”

“He’s still with her.”

She promptly turns on her heels.

“Parsley, wait!”

“What!?” she exasperates with panic strewn in her eyes.

“Don’t go up there.”

“Try and stop me.”

The cat does not. She knows mighty well not to stand in the way of a scorned woman, because she was once the same, “Just be careful,” she whispers to Parsley’s fleeting shadow.

Disheveled and utterly spent, Parsley finds her way by the Emerald Room’s dying fireplace. Her droopy eyes assess the red powerhouse that is Lady M, who is working with hands streaked with blood. The Madame is in her layers of scarlet, a color that complements and mixes well with the gore in her hands. She is a poison ivy.

There is a large needle moving in her hand. It follows precise movements of knots and loops of seamstress-craft. The body on the wooden table clenches and shudders beneath her needle. The body is shaking. The body is Titus’.

With her heart jumping out of her chest, Parsley inches closer.

Moreau stops. A sinister grin lifts the curve of her lips as she hears Parsley’s disjointed breaths. Her blank face turns toward the sound of hushed footsteps. No sound goes past the ears of a discerning Madame. She is a woman who has heard men howl, moan, groan, hiss, and scream.

M’s hands rest with the needle in Titus’ flesh. She squints and addresses Parsley with a refined tone of a true Verseilles, “Parsley, Parsley, Parsley … Oh dearie how you wound me. You are this boy’s lover, yes? Well, you too have been unfaithful … unfaithful to our cause, to the Manifesto. Would you like to share his needle? Maybe driving it down your heart will do you some good. What say you, my dear? Would you like me to sew your broken heart?”

Moreau shifts in her seat to show her handiwork. The word ‘w***e’ is stitched on Titus’ chest. Parsley’s eyes erupt with horror. Her lover … his body, his skin forever marred by the witch’s morbid wickedness. She shudders as she winks yet another tear.

“Consider this a lesson on prudence and honesty. A lie is only as good if you know your way around it. Do you not agree, Titus?” She adds weight to the needle in his chest. Titus stifles his groans.

“P-please … Madame Verseilles. Leave her out of this. It will not happen again. I implore you,” Titus beseeches as pain becomes an embrace around his body.

“Parsley, listen well. Two moons from today marks the night you get rid of that child in your pestering womb. I cannot have it grow, let alone litter around my estate. Do you understand?”

“Apologies, Madame Verseilles. I implore you. Please allow Titus his freedom,” she kneels before Lady M.

“The closer you are the deeper this needle will go,” she warns.

Parsley crawls by the knees, away from the Lady Seamstress.

“Well then. Run along now. Go get started on sums. You might want to inventory our cellar’s supplies too,” M chides with a knowing squint, “Do not let me tell you twice,” she commands with an elegant flourish, fingers dripping with Titus’ blood.

And so Parsley does. She walks away with the same blood dripping from her heart.

Blood roses are thrown to where Titus resides. Moreau had the boy killed the day after.

“I— I can’t breathe,” Parsley clutches her chest. Her lungs heave dry breaths of anguish, “Take these off me. Take these off!”

Sugar, a close friend and sister in the trade, helps her untie the ribbons of her tight corset. Parsley’s cries are one of intense emotional pain, the kind of hurt that wrenches and plucks the tubes of one’s heart. She mourns over Titus’ death, realizing that she will no longer share sunsets with him. Daydreams in late afternoons have now become her nightmares, haunting her with agony and sorrow.

She now trudges the base of the earth where ghosts of kids unborn skip and trail. Soon her child will be among them, lost in the shadows of the manor, “Take me away from here,” she pleads.

Their steps are heavy. Sugar consoles her in a tight embrace, quelling the pain that constricts her jaded broken heart.

The most sinister of measures are the most effective, for they get the message across.

“Gran, will she ever give birth again?” the child asks with an imperceptible smile.

“She still can, but not for a while. Not for a long while, my dear,” the woman whispers as her hands knit a baby bonnet.

Checkmate…