Back Alley Cats

Chapter 7 - Peppered f**k

Chapter 7 – Peppered fuck

Prisons. Most are dirty with grime, while others look clean and refined. Some have doors, most have none. You better fill your pockets with coin, because come the time you need to break a door, you will need more than just one salacious roar.

Moneyed captives use their coin to knock against steel bars. They hope to buy their freedom with gold coins and bars. The meager use their nails to scrape the walls, counting the days as they grow old. They stay languid until their bodies no longer respire. And when the curtain falls, their lungs will heave raggedly at the last breath of hope.

To which of these two do you wish to belong? That is a trick question. You need not make a choice, for one has been chosen for you even before you knew what making choices were for.

Each of us lives in a prison. Mine is a big rose-colored bubble. The view from the inside is like looking through rose-tinted glasses. It makes everything else look beautiful. Though I have been warned countless times, for a bubble is very fragile. My Gran would always tell me not to be deceived by its prism’s hue, because when I least expect it, the bubble could fizzle and blow.

Providentially, the prison I am in towers over everything else in Goldenpond. Now, please do not mistake me for a prisoner, for I am most certainly not. Because you see, here in my hand, I hold the key.

I hear there is one prison that is the most treacherous of all. Menservants and wenches speak quietly of it under bated hushes and whispers. And from what I gather, you need not be behind its bars to feel caged, because it has none of that, no, none at all. It makes me wonder why they fear it so.

They call it love. Have you seen what it looks like from the inside? Is it pretty? Can you show me? Please?

“This f*****g meat is bland, tasteless, and unsavory. Hand me the f*****g pepper!” Gran shouts bigotedly to a lowly manservant.

All three adjectives are synonymous. Heh, they all mean the same. However, she can make them sound like three completely different words as her tongue spits and curses.

The young manservant scuttles clumsily towards us. He brings the condiments in a resplendent basket of silver with strings of gold. I surreptitiously nod my thanks behind Gran. The boy returns the gratitude by doing the same.

Gran motions curtly with her long obsidian nails, “Off with you, little boy,” she hisses, sending the lovely young man away from us. With distance yet not too far, he turns a few degrees to smile. I show gratitude by giving the same.

“Bland, tasteless, unsavory…” are the words Gran masticates on as she splices the meat into diagonal strips. Words like these circulate often and bounce off the walls of our estate. I have gotten used to such exchange. Bland, tasteless, and unsavory words no longer bother me. Some are worth gleaning into, but most are not.

Gran is good with the words she chooses to speak. They roll off her tongue with flavor and certainty. Subtle are the disparities to the magnitude of her language. No one would even notice the differences whether she compliments or curses.

“Here you go, child,” she hands me a plate of sliced crocodile meat.

“Pepper your steak. It will taste better,” she adds to pepper her words.

“Thank you, Gran,” I nod to salt the bland, tasteless, and unsavory gesticulation.

Fifty years back, people would excessively salt their food to taste. The then bland, tasteless, and unsavory dishes become appetizing, delicious, and flavorful meals. Hmm, no wonder they all dies of hypertension.

I believe that overly seasoning one’s dish is an underhanded gesture. Just like how a knife is to the back of an unsuspecting victim. I have partaken in several food spreads and buffet dinners, and I have seen hands exchange vials of spices, herbs, and flavors. My smile turns into a frown every time I see a fake smile on their faces. Their hands would tap the powder onto dishes. They dust their food with seasoning and squeeze additional zest. I pity the Goldenpond Culinarian. Adding pizzazz in an already seasoned meal only means one thing: they do not like the food, nor approve of its taste.

Dust, dust, dust … speckle, speckle, speckle … is how we treat our victuals. Herbs, spices, and leaves, all of which douse the poor taste of our meals. We speckle them so much with saline or brine. Dust, dust, dust … speckle, speckle, speckle, tap! I wonder … do we even know what food really taste like?

“Psst!” goes the secretary cat in a resonating whisper.

“What?” the auburn dream snaps into a hushed murmur.

“Come here,” Felicia motions with a crooked Formica cat nail.

The auburn dream gaits toward the mahogany desk. She stands high and mighty with the tallest of bodies in all of Goldenpond. Her body slinks with confidence. She is the perfect prototype of a Back Alley Cat, “What!?” she exasperates in a vile undertone.

Funny how voices raise an octave when the person we talk to is already in front of us, “A Royal Guard of second-class is looking for Sugar,” Felicity seethes.

The high and mighty wench raises a speculative eyebrow, “So?”

The secretary cat leans and rests her elbows over the mahogany partition, as if her words are to be taken with a grain of salt, “He is her golden ticket. I can tell,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“Can a second-class be that rich?”

“Oh, Pepper … you have a lot to learn,” goes Moreau’s voice.

Pepper turns around to greet the yellow catastrophe that is Lady M. She wears the perfect mustard yellow silhouette from head to toe: beautiful antique gold silk bonnet with yellow lace and ruche ribbon that frame her award-winning cheekbones, yellow velvet-figured two-piece dress with a tightly fitted bodice which boasts of encased boning, eighteen steel-studded pearl buttons down the front of her dress of which the purpose is questionable, down to canary yellow lady slippers with pointy toes. Simply, she is yellow perfection.

“O! Zdravstvuj Krasivaya! How are you?” Pepper pecks Moreau’s award-wining cheekbones.

“I am well, Pepper dear. Thank you, you look beautiful too,” M kisses back from side to side.

Yes, Pepper and M share a friendly history. Their islands of origin are separated only by a mere click. Hence, they know each other dearly. Moreau hails from Merrilea where newborn mortality is always on high. A contrast to Pepper’s Dractown where kids populate every imaginable inlet of land. They can never be more different, yet their souls match.

Lady M lifts her right hand, elbow resting on hip. Her fingers fiddle and limp in the air like it is being suspended by the invisible strings of a mischievous puppeteer, “How are your Ruptured Tasks,my dear?” Pepper is a revered social worker by day and dirty courtesan by night. She is one of very few who are given the privilege to scour nearby islands, scouting for potential clients and girls who can become Back Alley Cats.

“There is an increase of activity in Merrilea. You have heard of it?” is Pepper’s assimilation.

“Oh yes, dearie. Indeed I have,” M pouts like she knows every movement of statistical measure.

Pepper is impressed, but hides her astonishment, “What would you like me to do?”

“Just keep a watchful eye and keep your claws at bay. You know what to do should the numbers go up. Just make sure the pregnant relocate three clicks away from Goldenpond.”

A perverted smile that breeds conspiracy lifts Pepper’s hard-edged cheeks, “And that is why you are the Madame of this New World, Madame,” she curtsies before M in reverence.

Moreau delicately covers her mouth with the back of her hand, like she is not used to such flattering remark, “Oh, you are too kind, dearie,” Her heels turn to the Formica cat, “Felicity, make certain that the Royal Guards are attended to…” She swivels back to the auburn dream. “And Pepper, keep one particular soldier away from Sugar, would you, honey?”

“Done,” Pepper squint a scheming grin of conspiracy.

“Oh, and f**k him in the Royalty Suite, would you?”

“Done and done,” she grins again, mischievously.

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

Input Client Specification: animal [match]

Service No.: 14900

Wench Name: Pepper

Birth Island: Dractown

Attributes: Waist long wavy auburn hair, keen sharp eyes, freckled shoulders, and tough skin, tall, perfect prototype of a body, bipolar, animalistic; sly, and bold.

PROVISO: Lone wolf in search of ‘the animal’ | Rough and tough. Safewords are encouraged.

Client Name: Moslov Souchez

Designation: Royal Guard, second-class

Preference: Top, Dominant, Sadist

Implement(s): Leather handcuffs, Incognito n****e vibrator, Studded paddle.

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

Pepper readies herself with a slew of coloration in front of her. Her eyes marvel at all the available cosmetics at her disposal: the crushed minerals, the dark powders, the vials of liquid mysteries. All these and more are necessary to bring out the beauty and evils from within her.

She laughs at the Proviso, “Rough and tough. Safewords. Guess he hasn’t met someone like me.”

“Excuse me. I am looking for the one they call ‘the animal’. I do not think you are her,” booms the gentle brute as he enters.

The man is built like a tank. Just like how a Royal Guard should be. He dons the same 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. He is a vision. Yet there is something amiss … Oh, he does not wear a corsair hat. Oh no he does not … He loves showing off his buzz cut.

Pepper examines his crotch, then darts her sharp eyes back into his, “I am the animal.”

“I am searching for a wench who goes by the name of Sugar. I believe she works here,” His words are ever gentle. There is disconnect between the voice and the body. One would not think that such kindness can come from the mouth of a lone wolf, a lupo who goes by the name Moslov Souchez.

His eyes flit the clock, a few minutes before sunset. His balls do not have long, nor does he have the time to argue. He sighs at yet another day wasted, “Sorry, honeypot, but you are no Sugar.”

“f**k Sugar when you can have Pepper,” she spits with tongue rolling the last word irreverently.

Moslov shakes his head in frustration and concedes to the invitation of the sly wench. He grunts and gaits towards her with hands unbuttoning his pompous coat. Now, do not let his second-class designation and rough exterior fool you. He is a man of discreet affluence. His pores reek of prosperity, opulence oozing from the pores. Yet he remains but a self-effacing Royal Guard.

There is word that he left Wintermere Island, a place where he and Sugar grew up together. He was heartbroken came the time when Sugar got her first menstruation. It broke his heart to see her go. But his love for her kept him going. He worked hard to catapult himself to Royal Guard second-class within a couple years. His designation granted him access from one island to the next, hoping and praying to find the other half of his heart.

His brows furrow at the sight of yet another cat, “I was told she works here. Are you sure you don’t know her? Answer me,” he haggles with aggravation.

Pepper squints, “How far is Wintermere from Goldenpond?”

“Four clicks,” is his answer to a question he is baffled with.

She parts her legs, giving him a view of what she has to offer, “Well, that answers your question. Wenches like me work in islands that are three clicks away from where we are born. Not two, not four, not f*****g five. Now, shut the f**k up, and f**k me.”

He exhales deeply. It is a guttural heave from deep within the bowels of his lungs. It is one of longing and pestering annoyance. His heart tires of all the screwing. It needs to beat for someone he truly loves. His eyes flit the clock again, “Fine, I don’t have long anyway,” is his way of conceding. Another day wasted. Another line chalked to the board.

Pepper brings her legs together to stand mighty and tall, “Good,” She is a pillar, a few inches taller than Moslov. Bring a Spanking ruler to measure her, and you will come up with six feet three inches, and that is measuring her without the leather boots.

“Jesus,” He looks up to examine the powerhouse that is Pepper, “How— how tall are you?” he ogles at the tallest wench he has even set his eyes upon.

“Taller than you,” she chides with a pompous smirk.

A bead of sweat rolls down the sides of his temples as he eyes the clock again, “We need to start,” is his barter. It is laced with tension and unease.

“Good to hear. Now, take your clothes off, little soldier.”

The agitated man rids himself of clothes. They pool around his feet to expose an Adonis. It is a sin not to look at him: strong eyebrows that taper to a point, hooded eyes made possible by the muscle on his brows, long stemmed and substantially plump nose, red kissable lips, and a masculine jaw. His body is a stroke of genius too: dusting of hair over his chest, ripe engorged n*****s, bulging six pack, yummy treasure trail, and a vehement bulge with a bell end that can impregnate a colony. A man built to f**k heaven and back.

Pepper motions to the bedside table, “Your implements,” His eyes grow at the sight of Leather handcuffs, an Incognito n****e vibrator, and a Studded paddle. He feel arousal fast and sharp.

“Damn it. Might as well enjoy myself here,” Moslov scowls.

She surveys the choice of implements, “Restless hands do no good they say,” she says.

“Kink comes with risks, baby. Hence, what we do should be consensual,” he explains.

“How can something like this be consensual when it is already planned?”

“You have a sharp tongue, missy.”

“It’s Pepper, you pompous fuck.”

He clenches his jaw, “Rightfully so. You’re just as spicy as your name.”

“Pepper does not have spice. It has bite,” she grits with abhorrence. She is not one to back down.

“Are you becoming a challenge? You know that I can make you feel the point of a knife should you undermine a client’s words. Oh, and that client happens to be me by way of association.”

Pepper crosses her arms tightly around her succulent breasts, “What are we waiting for? Either die here, or use those. Choose.”

“Fine, bend over, catty bitch.”

“No. Undress me first,” is her order as she c***s her hips to the side.

With irritation, Moslov helps her step out of her scandalously skimpy bottoms. A perverse image bleeds into his mind, making him stare. He drinks her in. She is too much of a beauty for a man not to behold. He shakes his head, willing his eyes to focus, “I am—I, I need this done quickly,” he speaks yet his voice trembles.

Pepper turns her back on him, unlacing her corset as she goes. She takes the lead by attaching the Incognito vibrators to where they should be. Then, she cuffs herself to the bedpost with legs spread at the ready waiting for him.

She gives him a thorough view of her luscious folds. Her walls drip as the vibrating nubs make her wet with joy. She treacherously writhes against the mattress with rotating strokes. She is a tease and a wench for show.

Moslov stiffens and hardens. He has never seen such an aggressive animal before. His eyes glaze as she moistens. He steps towards the sight of rapture. Her eyes gleam with triumph at each step the soldier makes. She knows too well how arresting the sight of a helpless woman is to a horny man. He takes his position behind her. His fingers curl around her waist, holding her in place.

“Sugar, forgive me,” he professes as he rams Pepper in quick succession.

The Russian cat surrenders to his foreign blows that move in circles, stimulating every corner.

He groans as he pillages her with his pile driver. She can do nothing but allow her body to venture beyond the sea of pleasure. Her knuckles whiten as she clutches the bedposts, unable to grasp any sphere of reference as to the magnitude of the acquired sensation.

A furtive smile paints her lips at the thought of being watched by prying eyes in the ceiling. She knows that there is a child watching her from up above. It is a thought she welcomes as her body gets defiled. She relishes the soul of a man with a tired spirit as they get lost in the throes of passion and heat; ‘Fftick!’ goes the sound of the Studded paddle, biting through her olive skin.

She screams with every blow yet she does not yell any safeword. Indeed she has a tough exterior.

Fftick!

“Yes! Yes! Harder!” she bawls like it does not hurt her at all.

Their motions pick up pace. She cries in pain. He bellows in frustration. Together they scream.

“Aah~! Gaahhh~!!” She squeals her rapture as she spirals to a downpour of rich velvety essence.

“Jesus, f*****g mercy,” He shudders as he explodes. The juices they share drip heavily down the inlets of their thighs. It a desecrated union they shared and liked.

He pulls out of her then immediately drinks her in. Pepper collapses on her stomach with hands straining at the bedpost, “Like I said. f**k Sugar when you can have Pepper,” she mocks proudly.

Moslov buttons himself up, “f**k you,” he growls walking away.

“You just did. You f*****g marine!” she grinds back with hatred.

“So, how’s the marine?” Felicia directs her enthusiasm at Pepper.

“Drowned in a pool of lust,” Pepper remarks as she takes her bag of coin from Felicity before walking away. The helpers and menservants stare at her as she goes, “What the f**k are you all looking at? Go back to work, you pieces of scum!” she spits.

She pulls her appliqué up to hide the teeth marks. It makes her feel less in front of the servants’ prying eyes. She bears a mark, a reminder that her name bites just as hard. She peppers her fingers over the bite, coaxing the skin to heal with respite.

Clink … clink … clink …

Clink! Clink! Clink! Clink!

Glasses are clinking, and not because people are sharing toasts of wine. Rather, wenches and patrons are sharing moans. They defile each other over tables and chairs to sate bodily pleasures.

A woman stands with a young lady outside the towering doors. They look at the spectacle, marveling at their work. They have taken special care to desecrate the Howling Room today. Soon their efforts will be rewarded with coin, lots of it.

“Hic!”

“Heh…”

“Hahaha…”

“Cocoa! Cocoa!”

The young lady observes the crowd that gathers around Cocoa. The men laugh and heave like drunkards and lunatics as Cocoa pulls out a banana from between her supple russet bosoms.

“Gran, are they really happy?” she gleans for an opinion as her eyes examine the debauchery that is taking place in the Howling Room.

The woman tucks a stray lock of hair behind the girl’s ear, “Look at their faces, my dear. What do you see?” she speaks maternally.

“I see a permanent smile, Gran. Does that mean they are truly happy?” her eyes search for the truth behind eyes that do not give anything away behind masks.

The woman regards her with soft almond eyes, “You know, child … Indiscretion cannot be seen behind their masks, you see,” she motions at the cloaked faces.

“Why do they wear masks?”

The woman catches a glimpse of Cocoa. The Nubian cat sees her too. She smirks and nods, and so does Cocoa. She turns to the girl to continue, “They are prisoners from far away islands who happened upon gold. The same gold will happen upon our pockets by the end of this show.”

Do not be fooled if you hear laughter, or happen upon a smile in Goldenpond. There is no lightness or merriment in this penitentiary of lust. No sir, there is none.

Prisoners of love, lust, and curio, indeed we are.