Back Alley Cats

Chapter 9 - Je ne sais quoi

Chapter 9 – Je ne sais quoi

Je ne sais quoi is having a quality that is difficult to comprehend or surmise. A person who has this is said to be mystifying and illusory. One has to peel their layers to deduce the air of secrecy. Its words are of French origin. It is a potent blend of Celtic, Latin, and Germanic, as stated in a subsection from the book of Ruptured Cultures.

I am rather fond of our library’s historical reserves. My beloved reads here in the Alley Cat Emporium include Ruptured Histories, Ruptured Tasks, and Ruptured Myths. I have sweet dreams of finishing my book by the end of all this. I wonder what kind of Rupture I will call it.

What is je ne sais quoi supposed to mean again? I know I have come across its translation here somewhere. Oh here. There it is. It literally means ‘I know not what’. It may sound nonsensical to some, but it sure speaks volumes to moi.

I regard it as camouflage, because it is a characteristic that deceives. An intrinsic feature that is hard to come by, one that we cannot easily put a finger on. Well, I am Lucky for I know someone who possesses such trait. I have met her, talked to her, and befriended her. Her name is rather sweet too, which is an irony. She is quite the challenge to adequately describe. I blame it on her mercurial veneer. She is either calm like the Wintermere waters, or erratic like a fuming volcano by the sea. The very few who have succeeded in peeling her layers call her the animal.

If I recount accurately, I believe she is being hunted by a Royal Guard first class by the name of Moslov Souchez. I just hope the hunter makes haste to finds its prey, because from what I see, the animal looks very hungry by the sea.

Sugar tilts her head to loosen a few kinks and spasms in her neck. She contemplates what it will feel like to have a last name. Her mind fills with wonders of a time when she can finally marry. Like a Cotton Louvencourt, or a Rosemary Setkas. Indeed her dreams are saccharine.

Her name is a common term of endearment according to Ruptured Cultures. Couples who bask in the throes of passion brand each other as such, for it sounds adorable and syrupy. However, knowing Sugar, she is not the sweet type. Her youthful exuberance is just a façade to hide the many atrocities she experienced growing up.

She slumps with elbows resting on her knees. She sits over an igneous rock formation near the shores of Goldenpond. Her long seductive lashes sway as the breeze performs a maleficent dance along the sandy shoreline. Her glint of a smile quickly fades into a quiet scowl at the sight of falcons catapulting to the sky. They look like a murder of crows as they shrink into the warm orange sun. And as Helios sets on the horizon, she cannot help but wonder, when will the time come for her own wings to flutter like falcons.

The rock formations around Goldenpond are born out of spite and calm. Fifty years ago, streams of molten lava reconstituted and solidified to form the islands. Their jagged contours numbed and shaped by torrential waters. Some lands failed to amass a strong base for stability. Luckily, Goldenpond had enough reserves to keep it afloat. Now it stands mighty and firm, towering above all others.

Providential is Goldenpond to be born out of calm and spite. It has survived many atrocities like tsunamis, typhoons, and hurricanes. This island is just like Sugar. She too radiates both spectrums of tranquility and malevolence. She is a definitive example of a person with a mercurial nature.

She thinks through all the phases she might have gotten herself into had she disagreed with her parents’ wish of moving to this celebrated island. The decision to move here was not of her accord. Wintermere, her birth island, is a vast expanse. It is the coldest of terrains and is three clicks East of Dractown and West of Merrilea. Her parents could have easily transported her to either of those islands. It would have been more convenient and a lot cheaper, but the prestige of working in Goldenpond was an opportunity they cannot resist. The decision was a no-brainer.

Decree 69 Section 1 of 2, Subsection II was a result of the corroboration between anthropologists and natural philosophers. It was a decision born purely out of coin and not of sensibility. This I know because I am aware of how corrupted some of them are. They manipulated the social strata with insidious ease. The bastards, they are a natural with conspiracies, and they spread it conspiratorially.

There were factions that fought against the decree’s subsection. The cataclysm is similar to wars from centuries past, as narrated in the pages of Ruptured Histories. Ideologies were fought with sharp words but were silenced by bullets from guns. The freedom fighters could do nothing. The sound of coin and golden bars play a better melody than the raspy tune of protest and upheaval.

Hostilities formed during those times were primeval. Picketers refused to concede to the Regency. They took it upon themselves to fight a war. Their efforts were for naught as shrapnel upon shrapnel riddled their bodies to tatters. Royal Regents fed their bloodlust, ordering Royal Guards to get people killed. They singed every picketing soul. The bodies that piled up ended being mere statistics. And when it came to numbers, there really was no end. Blood spattered and congealed, seeping through every crack, crevice, and inlet of earth within the islands. So do not blaspheme the air you breathe, for that whiff of rusty air is what remains of their blood and kin.

Sugar smells the bones from the pylons, blood beneath the stone blocks. She thinks of all the men who have died building the Back Alley Cats Pub. Her legs stretch like that of a prowling cat over the placid rock, and then dismounts from it with such ease that one will think it to be her natural habitat. She smirks as the yolk of the sun bleeds against the sea. Another day has ended, signaling her to retire her sweet, saccharine dreams, and give way to more beautiful nightmares.

Sugar scours the hallways. She prowls across the many rooms of desecration. Her cat eyes capture and appreciate the many harlotries through the slit of doors – in the Royalty Suite, a client salivates against a bit gag, begging for mercy as a wench disciplines him with c**k and ball torture; a Royal Guard giving a golden shower to a dry puss in the Prussian Room; men with their grubby manhood scandalizing women inside the lushness of the Howling Room; all the way to legs that are spread-eagled in the smoky and heady Rosetta Lounge. These and all other debaucheries are camouflaged within the horny walls of the estate. Je ne sais quoi. Indeed it is.

Her sugary paws take her past the Wench Gardens, and almost instantly she freezes. Her rigid sensibilities recoil at the sight of erotic electrostimulation. Fear constricts her heart. A distant memory shoots to her frontal lobe, drowning all her thoughts into a quagmire of saddening thoughts. Her eyes erupt in horror at the sight of a client who is being electrocuted. There is a sickening smile across the man’s face, and for a moment he laughs. He is clearly enjoying the menacing current that electrifies his prostate. The client is a sick man. Sick in the head…like her.

She pushes her back against a wall as her chest plummets into a gaping hole, a dark and endless void of sorrow. A place that is malevolent and infinite. Her demeanor shifts as if to cope. She suddenly feels infinitesimal as growing moans spring from the tortured man in the lush gardens.

Memories overtake her fragile mind. She is reminded of the many times she had to endure the same torture during her first few months in Goldenpond. Sugar is one of few wenches who were valiant enough to brave the decree. She was adamant about the subsections, spitting at the conformity shown by her co-wenches. Her tirades were for naught just like all the idealistic ones before her. She was sent to suffer erotic electrostimulation for a couple weeks at least. It is believed that anyone who spends a day in the electric chair would straighten up. Well, they were wrong. It did not restrain Sugar at all. It actually tipped her over the edge. The slightest of gnaws could tick her off since then. She was always irritable around people. Her outbursts were characterized by rapid and unpredictable changes in mood. Indeed, Sugar is not the sweet type.

Hunters may try to tame their prey, but they can never really contain the animal that is within.

‘Snap!’ goes a tired muscle in her brain, and with a calming breath she leers maniacally. In a snap of a finger she changes. Just like that. She brushes the fringe of her dark curly bob, and then continues her prowl towards the secretary cat. In the words of Lady M, “…Sugar is a mercurial kitty cat. One has to peel layers to fully understand what happens in her daffy neurotic mind.”

“Felicia,” she squints.

“Sugar,” she mirrors.

“Is there new news?”

“He’s here.”

“Set us up.”

The secretary cat nods.

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

Input Client Specification: French [match]

Service No.: 15102

Wench Name: Sugar

Birth Island: Wintermere

Attributes: French, very few of her kind, dark raven curly bob, mysterious eyes, petite; kind, enigmatic, mercurial.

Client Name: Moslov Souchez

Designation: Royal Guard, promoted to first-class

Preference: Top, Dominant, Sadist

Implement(s): Champagne flavoured lube [as per Sugar]

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

Felicity smiles like warm honey, “You mean to celebrate, huh, with the champagne lube and all.”

“It has been years, Feli. I believe it calls for a celebration,” Sugar toasts with the tube in hand.

“Sugar.”

The mercurial kitty cat stops midstride, and then turns on the balls of her feet, “Yes?” she purrs.

“Be careful. They don’t want you near him. They know that he can buy your freedom,” Of all the crippled years she spent behind her desk, Felicia never forgets the virtue of having that one true love.

“I know. Proximity of the body is unavoidable, and proximity of the heart is unacceptable. I remember it like the pill I took this morning. They never contained me, Feli. And they never will,” Sugar asserts with grit. And just like that she flips her coin. She is now the animal again.

The Madame is in her evening gown of yellow China silk, a textile that has endured the fabric of time. As expected, many Chinese survived the Rupture. Their billions may have reduced to tens of thousands, but they still hold a great percentage of the New World population. They reside in the Far East corner of the planet, where there is word of a club that could rival Moreau’s Back Alley Cats Pub. Well, that remains to be seen and authenticated by Nikolai Loubigné, the Regency Esquire. He is on it with haste as these words are being written.

M sits on a cushioned Victorian Rose chair. She loves counting coin in front of the help. It makes her feel more than the people who have less. No one escapes the Madame’s prying eyes. Under her lashes she sees Sugar, “Wintermere cat, where are you going?” she asks with grit.

“To Moslov,” she counters succinctly, making Moreau’s blood simmer to a quiet boil.

The Madame lifts her chin portentously. She is not pleased at all, “Pain is just on the surface, Sugar. Only when it goes deep in your bones, breaking every marrow will you know what being hurt truly means. So be careful,” Moreau administers like a syringe, her fingers stacking coins.

“Keep counting, you old hag. Till you bleed,” Sugar admonishes then departs with scanty steps.

Moreau throws a coin at her. It drops after her shadow. Evidently, Sugar is not sweet at all.

Sugar is strangely calm for a cat that possesses an erratic nature. She sits and bobs by the edge of the bed, hands planted under the folds of her knees. Her anticipation rises with every motion she does with her body, rocking back and forth like a patient from the loony bin.

Almost snapping from its hinges, the doors break open to a panting Moslov, “Sugar. Is it really you?” He sobs in disbelief, and then rushes to the foot of his sugary dream, “I knew you were here, they … they lied to me,” he agitates with palpable anger in his sullen tone.

She regards him with a familiar touch. Her delicate hands hold his face, caressing every contour and outline. The animal within her craves physical contact, “You are here now. Is it really you?” There is disconcerting passion in her words. She is confusing both to herself and to Moslov.

He is uncertain if his presence is being appreciated, because there is doubt in the second clause of her remark, “Yes, it’s me. Moslov … Oh God, Sugar, what have they done to you?” There is sadness in his voice, one filled with longing and regret.

She fists his hair, “Hmm…” her lips hum and murmur.

He responds by feeling her touch. His fingers interlace between hers as he buries his face in her hands, “I am here now. After tonight, you will be free.”

Something snaps in her, “Imagine all the delights I can wring from your enormous shaft. It has no end, I’d wager,” she punctuates. Her words a scandal.

Moslov gives a twisted smile, disregarding the crude remark she made. He knows there is cure for her sickness, “Yes, Sugar. It has no end,” he encourages, caressing her lips with her index.

He breathes in, and it feels like the first time, “I f****d a hell lot of women just to get to you.”

“Aah … Monsieur, that is sweet,” she smirks with glassy eyes.

Moslov does not want to sensate her if she is not ready, “Are you spent? We don’t have to do this. I’ll get you out first thing tomorrow when the sun rises.”

A coin flips again. Is it heads, or tails? Its tails, “You need to f**k me and feed, remember?”

“Um…” He knows that he should. But he is taken aback by her abrupt change of demeanor.

She flips another coin. Is it heads, or tails? Its heads, “I can’t love you. I can’t love someone I don’t trust. Who are you? Why are you even here? Whose?”

Seeing her like this, switching back and forth, flipping her coin at every turn, pains him. Her mercurial nature is something that he may have to live with, “You don’t have to love me now. We can do it tomorrow,” He leads her to the center of the bed.

“Moslov, what took you so long?” she hushes as her figure drapes over sheets of red velvet.

“I can’t answer that. I … I don’t—” a kiss filled with ardor seizes him. She pulls him down between her legs. Their breaths mingle as tongues share the sweltering heat of passion, longing, and desire.

She retracts from the kiss to tip her head back. Her eyes darken and dilate as Moslov mashes his lips along her jawline. He feathers sweet kisses down her throat, over her collarbone, across each breast. She bites back her moans as her body rouses with heat; the kind that enslaves, flames, and arouses.

Her one hand trails down his waist, tugging at the top hem of his trousers. Her other cups his arousal, appreciating the contour of the bulge that hardens. He stiffens with every touch, “Sugar, we need to do this. I cannot stop now. Please…” he begs in the glory of her delicious touch.

The dark orbs of their eyes are well ahead of them as they eye-f**k each other. Nasty thoughts of desecration and lovemaking prickle their senses, invading their thoughts. They want to ravish each other so heatedly that their skins begin oozing tumultuous heat.

Ribbons unlace, buttons fly, and fabrics pool as they undress each other. The anticipation is racking up high, sending shivers of excitement up their spines. His prostate titillates at the thought of her sweet succulent depths … devouring him, eating him.

He grits his teeth as his manhood falls and thickens between her legs. Their scents are a heady mix. It hardens him, lengthens him, and thickens him, making him grow beyond what is humanly possible.

“Please, please…” she implores with hips moving about against his.

He is a hunter with an impressive spear, who also happened upon his prey. All he needs to do now is ensnare her, and make love to her.

His heart quickens as his bone tightens. He knows too well that he wants this moment for the both of them. With delirious hands, he grabs the back of her right knee. Her leg goes up to her chest, the other curling around his hips.

He whispers her name with adoration. She responds with a sharp intake of breath as he enters her, sinking and moving rapaciously.

Her wetness is their lubrication. There is no need to celebrate with the champagne flavoured lube any longer. Their bodies spiral into ecstasy. His strokes are calculated and delicious, further lubricating their activity. He groans low in his throat with mouth opening into an ‘aah’ shape.

She whines as Moslov bites down a n****e. Each forceful tug is made with aggression. He suckles each tip like honey, rolling the bud between his teeth. Her body arches into a bow as she relishes the violation she is receiving.

Moslov is a potent man. His virility is incomparable. He never tires from a good session, more so from lovemaking. Muffled grunts foam from his lips, a response of his desperation. Blow after blow he gives it to her. Years of frustration and yearning envelop each stroke. He pushes against her limitations … stretching her, filling her, possessing her body.

The feeling of having his size within her is glorious. She chokes on her own screams as he pummels her with aggravating need. Their bodies quicken the more they move, “Oh, Sugar,” He sits her up in a position where they are nose to nose. Their breaths coalesce as they share a hungry kiss with tongues lapping at the sweet nectar of passion.

She readjusts on top of him. The clenching feels so full and lush. Moslov compares her puss lips to a warm wet hug. His thickness fills her from the lips to hilt.

He holds out his hands. She takes them. Their fingers lace intimately, coating each center, appreciating the touch of not wanting to let go. They eye each other with the promise of release as their motions hasten, “I love you. Come for me. Please…”

Their bodies douse with sweat. The scent is heady, musky, and thick; an odor that makes their head spin, spiral, and crash. She bites back a scream at the feeling of her orgasm. She deflates on top of him, feeling her every muscle sag and wilt deliciously.

He jerks his hips upward, making her plop painfully atop his member. Her thighs quickly crash back to earth only to have them catapult back to the stratosphere. He is close to nirvana. He bites his lower lip, knowing that he is near completion. His heart swells at the sight of a woman who equals his love and aggression, “Sugar— I am … coming,” he grunts as he reaches his apex.

He slowly lifts her from being impaled. The withdrawal makes her wince. She misses it already. With care, he lays her onto the bed. His nose disappears between her legs just like the sunset. He fellates her darkly, lapping and licking at her gift. The contact makes her heart ache to a feeling she longs for. He savors every drop and relishes the sight of her as she tenses and contracts.

“I love you. You f*****g marine,” Without looking up, he smiles, knowing that he has cured her.

Moslov never sleeps well on land. The sea is in his blood. He treks the outskirt along the sandy shoreline, then sits atop a stone adjacent Sugar’s, “I love the sunrise,” he remarks with eyes not leaving hers. He adores her, loves every bit of her crazy.

She hunches atop her placid stone, welcoming the breeze from the waters, “I love it too,” she grins back. Almost immediately something snaps within her. Her mercurial nature is to blame as it rears its ugly head. She frowns at him then looks away.

He follows her gaze, giving her the time she needs to return to normalcy. His hands find hers, reassuring her that he is waiting. But sadly, not even the calm waters can wash away her sorrows.

The day of Titus’ burial invades her mind. Images of Parsley crying and mourning crashes over her like a tidal wave. And as normalcy resurfaces, all she can think about is keeping Moslov from having the same fate. A coin flips again. Heads or tails? Heads. She smiles back at him. Her bones ache as she reaches up to the sky with her hands. She kicks a stray pebble. It rolls down to rejoin with the other rocks that meet the shore, “I’d like to thank you. I just don’t know how.”

“Live with me.”

“But where?”

“Wintermere, it’s time to go home.”

She breathes a sigh of relief then looks from Moslov to the horizon, “Yes, take me home,” she beams with her pearly whites as they share the sunrise together.

~~~Session Results | Status Update~~~

Service No.: 15102

Wench Name: Sugar

Session: A+

Result: Customer Satisfied

Status: Sold to Moslov Souchez for 60 golden bars.

Update: Released.

Approved and signed, Headmistress Madame Moreau Verseilles

~~~Session Results | Status Update~~~

Lucky is the young lady who snips flowers, “Gran, I envy these blossoms. They remain so virginal,” she admires as her fingers examine the petals from tip to fold.

“Well, dearie. You see, these flowers are illusory. Especially the ones you hold in your hand,” she explains as her fingers esteem the belladonnas and aconitums.

“This one right here is the deadly nightshade,” the woman motions while holding the belladonna. “And this little sucker right here is my personal favorite. They call this the queen of poisons,” she describes while twirling the aconitum between her fingers.

“Why are we not poisoned by these?” the young lady asks.

“Aw, my child, you see … our blood already is a poison. Do well to remember that, my dear.”

Indeed, one has to peel layers to deduce the air of secrecy. Surveiller de près … watch closely.