Back Alley Cats

Chapter 6 - Sensual strokes

Chapter 6 – Sensual strokes

Paintings are only as beautiful as the hands that paint them. They are masterful pieces that catch our eyes and provoke our thoughts. They hold such splendor, despite being static and immobile. Within these walls they are aplenty, and I have grown fond of them. Static veneers of life in motion as I like to call them.

Surprisingly, those that scream the most are the one’s tinted with subtlety and quiet brushstrokes. Often we see the good ones in deals, barters, and auctions. And with delight we purchase them, take them home, and hang them on our walls.

The good ones become great as they increase in value over time. More notable do they become with age, just like wine. The thought makes me wonder. If only time can augment man the same way it does a painting. Then maybe we’d be masterpieces too.

Unsurprisingly, as years go by, the initial delight which moved us to procure such art seems to get old. We become less fond of them, grow cold of them even, much like how the gilds in their edges turn into tarnished gold. We eye them as less desirable.

Currently, my hands skim the gilded metal balustrade, eyeing the stream of myriad photographs studded on the old rosette walls. I stop to wonder. There is one painting in particular along the elegant sweeping staircase that does not seem to age. There is allure in its image. Its intricacy boasts of depth perception. It is the masterpiece of one who has deft hands. I can feel the soul in its brushstrokes. And unlike the others, it has maintained its youth.

Babies… with heads the size of my fist and bodies the length of my arms, they sure are never-aging. I pity their image in this canvas because in reality, only a handful of them get to experience their first breath of life, in this New World Order at least.

Smoke gathers over their heads like an ominous cloud. The man continues to puff like a chimney that never goes out of firewood. He eyes the Madame salaciously, yet there is restraint in the way he views her. There is … reverence.

“They never get pregnant because they should not. And should a man succeed and plant his seeds, we will simply drown the little tadpoles in a pool of alcohol and drugs. Heh, poor little angels, they do not stand a chance. Not by the skin of our teeth,” M remarks.

There is something about the footsteps of a growing child that Moreau has an aversion to. No one really knows the story behind her loathing. But one thing is for sure. She hates babies.

A man wearing contrasting patterns of layered silk sits across the table from her. He nods in agreement as a cloud of smoke fumes upward from his slightly parted mouth.

Lady M juts her lips into a look of abhorrence, teeth gritting with revulsion, “The world has become small for the cries of children. Cries do not breed money. Moans can. There were lots of scary back alley abortions. I have heard and seen some of them. And mostly, they are followed by a gunshot,” is her narrative, plain and simple.

The man grins as threads of smoke smolder from the sides of his mouth. He is devil incarnate.

“The only thing that should come to a sleeping man is either a dream or a nightmare,” is her assertion.

“After we make them ‘come’ of course,” the man completes her statement, smirks, and then cackles.

Goldenpond has the finest selection of women in all the Isles. They are skilled in the sensual arts. Their bodies are like grafted images, moving with untamed life. They are blank canvases, waiting to have the right hands turn them into beautiful paintings.

The job of a High Regent is to stay as one. Therefore, they need the acquired talents of a Regency Esquire. The esquires are venerable men of high social ranking. Their words are powerful and many. Some are true, most are false. Just like diamonds in the sky there are those who are pure, and they shine the brightest along with the moon.

Apparently, one found its way in Goldenpond. He shines the brightest as he stands in the Emporium amidst the dark concupiscent souls surrounding him. The brush in his hands move with practiced eloquence over the canvas. He is a masterpiece, painting a work of art.

All eyes are on him and the brush in his hand. Men, women, and everyone in between, they all clamor, wanting a taste of his paintbrush and him. Oh yes they do. I would too, if I were old enough. But just like wine, I may have to wait my turn for my cork is yet to unwind.

There is a collective gasp as they marvel at his quick hands. What they do not know is how his hands can slow at the touch of a woman. He is a man of pure and sensational talent.

A collective swoon of oohs and aahs flit their putrid mouths as his subtle strokes of genius make their hearts flutter and gasp. Aah the torment. Some of them hide behind the shadows of bookshelves, touching and pleasuring themselves shamelessly.

It is sad being a wench. They only earn money in lust, but the happiness is not completely theirs. It is a sad, sad notion. Only in moments like this do they earn love in lust, and could say that happiness, no matter how diminutive, is completely their own.

The Esquire feathers one last touch with deft hands before stepping back. He observes his work with depth perception. His brow arches. His lip smirks. Alas, he is done. And so are the concupiscent souls behind the shadowy confines.

Madness and genius are so balanced in his personality that no one can tell the difference. A smile that should be ephemeral lingers on his face. He is clearly an egotistical man. Without a care for the presence of others, he lavishes in the magnificence of his own work. Indeed, a Regency Esquire is an enigma waiting to be resolved.

“I saw Harkidte with your mother,” mocks a manservant to the fiery wench.

“Oh really? Well … I saw him with your father, you asshole,” she fires back.

With a temper that is about to burst, the manservant raises his hand, “You cu—!”

“Enough!” bellows a handsome man, stopping the hand that is about to slap across the wench’s mouth. The man has the look of a perfect French love affair: tousled dark brown hair, fair supple skin, gray eyes, straight nose, sculpted lips, high cheek bones, a strong jaw, and a five-o’clock shadow clipped to perfection. He is a s*x god in a white and blue pin-striped morning jacket tailored in cutaway style. The jacket falls over long pantaloons of yellow nankeen. His ensemble is what is dubbed as informal summertime clothing, “You there. Go.” He dismisses the wench.

She responds with a curtsy. Then scuttles with haste towards the direction of the lobby where Felicia resides. The handsome man smiles at her shadow as it disappears into the darkness. He is amused by her. His amorous expression quickly loses its color as he turns to face the lowly manservant, “You are Priapus, correct?” he asks with terse lips.

The manservant bows before him, “Yes, Regency Esquire, I am.”

The Esquire keeps a stern face, “Are the rumors true of your size?”

“Yes, Regency Esquire,” the man responds curtly. He is nervous.

“Pull down your grubby pants,” the Esquire orders, impassively.

The man obliges. He yanks his trousers down to pool around the ankles. His behemoth size swings from left to right before stopping in the middle. He is priapic indeed.

“If I ever see you lift a hand on a woman again, I will have your horse schlong mutilated to be used as my paintbrush. Are we in agreement?” he speaks with nonchalance, expression deadpan.

The manservant speaks with rickety voice, “W-we are, Regency Esquire.”

“Good. Now, pull your pants up before I change my mind,” he admonishes with indifference.

“Hey, who’s the handsome French Fry?” the fiery wench asks with pure wonder in her eyes.

Felicia’s eyes widen, in the same manner as before with Cotton and Parsley, “Are you for real? Seriously, Sage … You really don’t know what a Regency Esquire looks like??” she gasps.

“Um. No.”

Clueless this girl is. Sage is her name. She is fairly new, and she has quite the imagination despite her naiveté. Regardless, any girl her age can become odd in a place like this. Just like the paintings that have gotten old along the sweeping staircase.

“This might help you get to know him better,” Felicity hands the infamous Formica clipboard.

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

Input Client Specification: crimson, scarlet, ruby, burgundy, cherry | wavy, coiled, and twisted [no matches found]

Closest match: Sage [Fire engine red hair done in long curly locks] [mischievous mannequin personified in red f**k-me pumps]

Service No.: 14879

Wench Name: Sage

Birth Island: Brightwick

Attributes: Fire engine red hair done in long curly locks, emerald green eyes fixed on a permanent squinty smile, skin as white as snow, blood red lips, mischievous mannequin personified in red f**k-me pumps; passionate, caring, loving, headstrong, tight-lipped.

Client Name: Nikolai Loubigné

Designation: Regency Esquire

Preference: Top, Dominant, Sadist

Implement(s): His and hers masks, Edible body paint.

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

“Nikolai…” Sage rolls his name like a kitten with a saucer full of milk.

“Yes. Oh yes,” the secretary cat purrs like a kitten with a ball of yarn.

Sage readies herself with haste. She is so slow for one so young. It is a riddle to even put the words ‘haste’ and ‘slow’ in the same paragraph. But just like her client, she is an enigma waiting to be resolved.

She frantically enters the Scarlet Velveteen with implements in hand. The room is like the purple Royalty Suite, only red, and with lots of velvet. It is a domicile where pain and romance coalesce so perfectly that no soul will ever notice if someone were to bleed.

She gawks at the magnificent mural in the ceiling. Babies with roses in their hands jump from one cloud to the other. They look happy, sporting smiles like that of angels. They are cupids without the wings.

Her eyes linger so long in the sky that she fails to see the masterpiece painted before her. The sound of nails tapping and knuckles crackling breaks her trance. Her eyes go down. She freezes where she stands.

“The name is Nikolai Loubigné. I see that Goldenpond kept its word,” he approves of her like a canvas that is waiting to be tinted. The Esquire walks around the wench, eyeing her from the locks of unruly red hair atop her head, down to the pair of black incognito heels cradling her feet.

He ends his rotation where he started, stopping to give her a rascally smile. The cheeky smile forms into an elfin grin as he bows before her like a gentleman. Let not his prim fool you, it is clear that he is not proper. Esquires are masters of manipulation.

The gentleman stands at the ready, “You are new here, correct?” he muses with eloquence and puckish resolve, a strange combination that only he can muster.

Her youthful cheeks blush at the question. His gaze alone can impregnate a woman regardless of age. He is riveting and intoxicatingly masculine, “Yes. Fairly new,” her mouth babbles the words. She is clearly smitten by him. He is a lovely hunk of a man. His presence is electrifying. The scent he gives off is immobilizing. He is like that of the angels in the ceiling, only more potent, libidinous, and virile. He is an angel with dark wings.

“Mr. Loubigné, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, ask away,” he admonishes with hands, yet his face is a look of encouragement. Like I said, madness and genius are so balanced in his personality that no one can tell the difference.

Sage hesitates but decides to press on, “Will the problem before us ever find its resolve? Will your kind ever find a cure?” she relinquishes her thoughts.

“Heh, our kind, huh?” he chuckles, “And you say ‘us’ like we all have an equal share in this destitution,” he snorts, yet his eyes glint with admiration. He adores her bravado, visibly so.

The Esquire tilts his chin up, clearly he regards himself as superior, “The path we have before ‘us’ will never change. And you should know that to complain is to desire exile, as stipulated in Decree 69th Section 1 of 2, subsection III.”

“I…I apologize. It’s just that—”

Nikolai puts his right hand up to effectively sever her thought chain. The gesture immobilizes her lips. She knows better than to carp in the way of a wordy Esquire, “It’s just that the thought is eating you alive,” he finishes for her.

“Yes. Yes it does,” she replies curtly.

He rubs his chin with his right thumb and index finger, “Your trepidation towards the decree is explicable. You are fortunate that my ears understand your plight. The turnout may not favor your side if you were to discuss this with anyone who is less perceptive. I believe your reproachment should be replaced with rapprochement. Tread with caution little kitty cat, for your disapproval will be your grave someday, truly so if you keep searching for bones that do not exist,” he ministers with perception.

Sage gives the words some thought. However, she finds herself conceding, unable to exchange blows with a man so persuasive, “What happened with the world? Why are we the way we are?”

“Close your eyes if you are asking about the epidemic. Nod if you wish to learn more about the Rupture,” His options were clear, sharp, and concise. So she closes her eyes to pick the former.

“Radiation seeped so deep that men and women have become carriers of an incurable pathogen. Man is yet to discover an invasive procedure that can extract the elusive protein. It is an intricate task, because it needs to be physically performed during union. One can only wish for the process to be recreated in a laboratory. Experiments to create an antigen in Petri dishes always end in failure. Testicular cancer cells were deeply embedded in our DNA the moment the world got Ruptured. The cells are activated when a zygote is formed during conception. Hence, there is no end to how it begins. It is a vicious cycle. We are no longer of pure blood. All of us are tainted upon birth. No one is a clean slate. I am sorry to disappoint you, but there is no known antibody that can counterpoint, counteract, combat, or reverse the infection. Scientists found the genome difficult to break. Only that of a woman’s essence is capable of reducing the protein into strands. Its unique signature helps expel unwanted cells by means of seminal emission. Consequently, we come here to feed on your p*****s, so your elixir can help us eject the cancer, even if just for a day.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“Details do matter.”

“You talk too much. You know that?”

“I am verbose, yes. Very loquacious to some, but what can I do? I am the Regency Esquire. Now, open your eyes, my dear Sage.”

She opens her eyes to see babies jumping from one cloud to the other. Her expression is one of shock and bewilderment as she finds herself draped over the red velvety bed, “How did I get here!?” she darts to Nikolai who is at the foot of the bed. He watches her with wanton desire.

He slightly lifts an eyebrow, “What do you think of Harkidte Setkas?”

“The High Regent is a shriveled prick and a liar,” she spits with venom.

“Oh, is that how you see him?” Nikolai muses. Thumb and index finger return to graze his stubbly chin, “He sees coin in lust. Look up. What do you see in stars?”

Her eyebrows meet, “Nothing?”

“Naiveté, how precious, you need to treat every sunset as if it were your last.”

“I can’t even remember what it looks like anymore,” she speaks plaintively.

“Which explains why you do not see anything in stars.”

“Don’t blindside me with words. How did I get here?”

“Much anger in your words and lust between your legs.”

His words sever her psyche. She is about ready to combust in the sheets. Her thoughts melt into pure sensation as the feel of the velveteen fabric heightens her arousal. There is something to be desired from a man who knows his way around words. And clearly, she desires those words to become actions that will take her to nirvana.

“Well then. Let us get acquainted. I need you to excite me. I badly need an intense explosive discharge. Take me to the height of s****l arousal,” he gesticulates with fervor.

All the talk is making her less keen. She resolves to fire close-ended questions.

“Sure. You want the big O?”

“Yes,” Nikolai replies.

“You could have just said so,” she snorts.

Sage sees a pattern that might shut him up.

“Has no one ever told you that you talk too much?”

“Yes.”

And with the response come her success. She wins the game. Her questions reduce his into one-liners, “Oh, I see what you did back there. Clever puss, you win,” he concedes, and so does his lips as they seize hers. He undresses himself as his body hover hers. All Sage can do is moan in approval as the angels in the ceiling mural get eclipsed by the powerhouse that is Nikolai Loubigné.

“I still have clothes on,” she whispers in between kisses.

“Soon you won’t,” The words spike both of their bloods as they anticipate the rapture that nears.

He successfully rids himself of clothing to show a light dusting of sweat. He is a vision of ecstasy. One that Sage will not mind having each and every day. His expert fingers tug and unfurl the lace that binds her corset tight. Each pull at the ribbon adds a thump of urgency in his heart. The Esquire has an impressive size. One may need the aid of both hands to clasp his vehemence.

“What. About. My. Bottoms?” Sage asks in staccato breaths. It is clear that her heart rate is picking up. She knows that her body craves a good hammering after all the brain exercise she has been having. What she needs now is to sink in pleasure, where no thought process can surface.

“Leave them on. I want your body to beg against the fabric,” he whispers darkly. All her muscles clench tight.

Nikolai resolves to wear the implements. He puts on his mask, and then hands the counterpart to Sage. She wears it, making her green eyes pop against the blackness of the disguise. Her look is that of a poisonous leviathan.

He lies astride her, giving her a view of his impressive planes. His body is certainly a work of art. She has never seen perfection quite like him. The Esquire seems to come from a mold that is hard to duplicate. He is perfection.

Sage resolves to have her fill. Her greedy mouth skims over the sparse hair of Nikolai’s sculpted chest. Who would have thought an Esquire would be gifted with such a body, when all they do is talk and not pump iron on Sundays. Her hands grate the valleys and ridges of his tight abdomen. He is a masterpiece without a doubt. She twists the budding peaks between her teeth. Moans of approval betray him. He is enjoying the attention he so craves.

She resolves to surprise him by having him inside her mouth.

“Ah! How did you get there so fast!?” he shouts, perplexed.

His size is beyond substantial. He is impressive to say the least. So notable that Sage has to wrap both hands to completely coat the rest of him. She suctions like a vacuum, pumping the spirits out of him, “I’m, hmm…” he moans, and then sticks two fingers in his mouth, lapping vigorously. She stops to look at him, “What?” he asks.

She knows too well what the Esquire wants. His fingers are a sign that she needs to ready herself for penetration. And judging from his enormity, it is going to be a painful one, “Tell me you don’t want it,” Sage grins from ear to ear like a Cheshire. That is all he needs to hear from her.

“Strip, then sprawl over the bed with your arms and legs out,” he commands like a true Dom.

Her response is of quick actions. And for the first time, the snail that is Sage has become the velveteen rabbit. She moves so promptly that she unsheathes her bottoms and unrolls her shin guards in record time. She drapes herself comfortably over the ruby sea with limbs stretching at the ready. He crawls his way between her thighs, kissing fervently. His hands navigate the contours of her body like a map. She is ready for him to lambast her well-kept treasure chest.

The ache blossoms in her body like a budding rose. His expert touch is titillating. The skilled painter pours vials of Edible body paint over Sage’s heated flesh. It coats around every inlet of skin from the exposed to the enclosed. The colors are a mess of art on her curvaceous body.

Nikolai palms and kneads her into submission. All she can do is submit to the touch. She does not even resolve to protest as sensation overtakes her. Her body quickens as she moans, “I feel like—”

“A painting,” he finishes.

“Oh … Nikolai,” she groans amorously as the painter sheathes his tongue between her legs.

Her body is in so much rapture that she fails to notice the hands that clamp at her ankles. Legs go up over her head. Shock registers in her face at the sight of Nikolai who is ready to penetrate her.

“It’s. It’s—”

“It’s big,” he finishes for her, yet again.

His happy trail starts from the last ridge of his abdomen before ending in a generous clump over the base of his shaft. One would think that dense hair will reduce a man’s size, but not Nikolai’s. He too is like Priapus. His size stems from base to the top ridge of his stomach. Gifted, yes he is.

The initial penetration is searing, causing her to scream. There is nothing that can prepare her nor lubricate her to adjust to the size. He fills her to her absolute limitation, sheathing the plumpness deep within. Torture it is and so much more.

“You. Are. Tight,” he murmurs as he rams her with delicious blows.

The touch of paint dripping from her sides is a sensation she does not expect. It is like having mercurial waves of scintillating tongue skate over the microscopic pores of her skin. The stirring is alien to her. It is her first time to experience titillation. Bliss, it is so.

“Nikolai, please go faster. I am close,” she beseeches, to which the Esquire rewards with rapacious thrusts. He pushes into her, making their bodies recoil in warmth.

“Sage, you’re tightening even more. Are you okay?” It is almost painful to push deeper into her.

She welcomes the assault by clenching rabidly around him, “Faster, please. I beg you!” she cries with tears dousing her temples. Her face is one of mounting pleasure, a mix of pain and lust. The sight makes Nikolai lose his control. He finds it motivating to see a woman pleased and satisfied.

He goes deeper, harder, and faster like a feral creature. Their bodies writhe and quake over the ocean of red velvet. The colors of paint mix and gradate as he sensate her. He wraps his mouth around her beads, suckling furiously at the hard peak that tastes like blackcurrant and cherries.

“I’m—” is the last phrasal invective she can muster as her body lifts, spirals, and then falls. Nikolai quietly grunts as he finds release inside her. And without feeling the need to catch his breath, he pulls out to slump between her legs. He laps at the juice that keeps spilling from her moistness.

After having his fill, he sits on his heels and wipes the excess from his hungry mouth, “Such a beautiful creature you are. You have my gratitude,” he reveres. With care and devotion, he wipes the inlet of her thighs with the sheets. The gesture throws her off. She does not expect to be venerated.

The Esquire is a potent animal. He does not look spent, not even the slightest, as he stands to fist something from within his jacket pocket, “Here, please take this.”

“What is it?” she pants for she is yet to gather her shattered self.

“It is a diamante cufflink,” he remarks with pride.

Her eyes get bigger, in the same way Nikolai’s mouth did when he knackered her senseless.

“Never dull your shine for anybody else,” he remarks.

“Regency Esquire, wasn’t it? When we speak next I hope you will tell me more interesting things. Like how easy can one escape when they are bound, how one can recover a shattered spirit, or how your kind knows of such mysteries … It all makes me wonder, kind Sir. What is it that this island is trying to accomplish?” he gleans.

Nikolai gives a knowing smile. Some things are better left unsaid,certainly.

~~~Session Results | Status Update~~~

Service No.: 14879

Wench Name: Sage

Session: A-

Result: Customer Mildly Satisfied

Raison d'être: I need to brush her deeper. Once I finish painting, she will get an A+

Status: Hired as personal assistant for 20 golden bars.

Update: Permitted.

Approved and signed, Headmistress Madame Moreau Verseilles

~~~Session Results | Status Update~~~

“Gran, can cats talk? I always hear them whisper my name,” asks the child.

“They do not, dearie. They purr,” answers the woman.

The child presses her lips into a hard line before speaking, “You see, I wanted to plant outside. But then I started hearing these tiny voices, like they were cats. I think one of them whispered my name.”

“Oh? Why do you say so?” she rocks in her Adirondack.

“I think it is because I am fortunate,” she frowns.

“You are, child. Since the day you were born.”

“I felt one of them pass between my legs.”

“Did you see anything?”

The girl shakes her head.

“Well, maybe they do not want you to see them.”

The girl scrunches her eyebrows, sticks out her lower lip, and then decides to leave the thought behind, “Anyway, I dug a hole in the ground. But the soil came up with bones. Plants do not grow on bones, right Gran?”

“How big were the bones, sweetheart?”

“They were very little, smaller than mine.”

Paintings indeed are beautiful, especially the ones that never age at all.