Back Alley Cats

Chapter 10 - Cumpatriots

Chapter 10 – Cumpatriots

In the mornings I touch them. There are seven, one for every day, and each with its own thickness. I run my hands up and down their lengths, carefully assessing which to choose among the seven. I usually pick the ones that are most taut and firm.

This one shaft I hold is as stiff as wood, the others as hard as steel. Delightfully, I use both hands to pull, tug, wring, and knead. I erect it using skilled hands and dexterous fingers. It rises vehemently. Upwards to the sky it bolts, proud and mighty.

I sheathe the velvety head with the fabric. Its tip flails and jolts when I blow it. At times it does not still at all. Oftentimes it even limps. I do this every single day. I adore it, revere it, and worship it even. Up to its tapered point I touch and squeeze.

With my mouth open, I watch in awe as the fabric catches wind. I kneel before it and brace myself to be ready. It needs to reach its peak before the sun comes up, and it shall. Alas, there is no morning activity quite like that of a flag ceremony.

Fifty years back, there was one world. It was not old, nor was it new. The then planet and all its imperfections is now what we dub as the Old World. It had continents and countries aplenty. Every single one of them constituted a flag as symbolic. They believe it holds patriotic meaning.

Well, here in Goldenpond, Island we do not revere a symbol. No we do not. Instead, we worship a matriarch. Headmistress Madame Moreau Verseilles is her name, and her face is embedded, printed, and sewn into the fabric of the flag I am currently pulling. An imprint of a cat whose rise to power is something I admire and emulate.

I adore her despite the crudity and smut she is known to be. She is a repository of learning. Oh yes she is. She teaches me every single time, in each chapter of my life. Her methods are extreme, potent, and vile. And that is why I love her. I wonder what she is up to at this hour, talking to strange men by the clock tower.

I see merchants from across the sea. Whale oil they sell and haggle it seems. I just hope they barter well and with ease, knowing the revered and powerful Lady M, she is not easy to please.

Whale Oil is a proud product of Merrilea. It is manufactured in accordance with all applicable labor laws from the New World Order, Decree 50th Section 1 of 2 ~Of oils and spoils~ mandate.

Well, not everything can be set in stone. You see, Merrilea is Moreau’s birth island. Being headmistress of Goldenpond’s infamous Back Alley Cats Pub grants her authority beyond measure. She pulls the strings, the men nod. She flicks their thread like a harp, the men bow. Pathetic, they are tied and suspended from her hands like that of a puppeteer.

M gets to have the cleanest and most bitching barrels of whale oil across the islands. Her techniques of persuasion are a scandal. They are unwarranted activities that nullify and violate subsections from the ‘oils and spoils’ mandate. All she does is smile, and it instantly placates those who quibble and wrangle for a generous price. When push comes to shove, she offers her wenches as leverage. And just like that they compromise, ultimately abolishing the decree. Insidious, yes she is, and that is why we revere her as the New World Madame.

The dark raven tramps like a patriot. Her giggles and sniggers enthrall clients to follow her. With glazed eyes they move like zombies, wanting a taste of her flag-wavers. Of all the wenches, this particular one desires a good following. In the words of Lady M, “…she is a patriotic tramp and a scandal. Men clamor at her feet, and she loves it. They adore her, revere her, f*****g worship her even. She spews liquid gold from her fanny. She is a goldmine, a beehive, indeed.”

Locks of raven hair dip like tendrils as her arms stretch over Felicia’s isle. She bends over, purring and rubbing her face over the partition like a kitty cat. Her legs part for all the clients to see. The view of her horizons is a promise. Many a sunrise and sunset have risen and dipped between her mounds. She is a harbinger of nightmares to men who fear their dreams at night.

Her bosoms plop invitingly over the secretary cat’s isle. She dips, gyrates, and teases with her hips, swaying for all the men to see. This is what she does every single day. Imagine what men would pay for a session with her. If only they knew how much she detests them altogether.

Felicity squints and peeks from under her lashes, fingers not stopping from keying in order slips. “Keep doing that and your legs will break, my dear,” she bemuses starkly.

“Like yours … perhaps?” the dark raven castigates with a harrowing smile.

The secretary cat returns the gesture with a perverted grin. She need not answer nor respond to the sly wench. Her quick fingers are more than adequate to bestow a punishment, “No specifications this time. Lucky’s pick. I hope you satisfy.”

The indecent raven reaches for the Formica clipboard, “I always satisfy,” she rebukes haughtily.

Felicia’s fingers interlace below her chin. Her cat eyes squint dangerously like she had a drink of deviled ginger ale, the infamous Goldenpond concoction, a demonic alcohol drink mix. She titters quietly. Clearly she has something up her sleeve.

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

Input Client Specification: None. [no match]

Service No.: 15169

Lucky pick: Thyme

Birth Island: Goldpond

Attributes: Longdark raven hair done in wavy locks, Persian cat eyes, full lips, toned, sculpted, voluptuous, pinkish luminescent skin; promiscuous.

Client Name: Ari Hautmougey

Designation: Regency Adviser

Preference: Top, Dominant, Sadist

Implement(s): Butt plug.

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

Now, you may wonder if the birth island is a typographical error. It is not. Goldpond is a smaller island and is three clicks away from Goldenpond. It is a land of gold, a depository for most of the coins and bars that circulate and exchange hands in this New World. Thyme’s eyes widen for a second before her gaze flattens to a squint, “A butt plug? And for a Regency Adviser at that.”

The secretary cat nods, her chin rubbing against knuckles that are interlaced below her chin, “I advise that you please this one, Thyme. He has a direct line to Harkidte. Client satisfaction is crucial and at the pinnacle of your assignment,” her expression blank, not giving anything away.

Thyme c***s her jaw slightly to the side then grinds her teeth with a pompous clank at the end, “Now now, when have I not pleased a client?”

“Five minutes,” Felicity reminds her to move.

“I know,” Thyme hisses, and then walks away.

Thyme gaits with haste towards the Golden Hive. The room of desecration is like that of the Rosetta Lounge, only golden, more upscale, and much more opulent. And just like Cocoa, she booked it all to herself.

Thyme is a very sly wench. Her craftiness has afforded her many a coin and golden bars. She is used to having the upper hand, and she will not have it any other way. With butt plug in hand, she inspects the hive –a plethora of smoking bongs, serving as centerpieces over wooden tables that sit low and close to the filigreed Persian carpeting. There is also the presence of gilt-edged Victorian Rose sofas, a staple in every room of harlotry. The overall effect of liquid gold complements the ambient lighting. Undeniably, the Golden Hive is a luxury. It is where horny honeybees suckle, gripe, and breed. By and large the room is stunning, worthy of fertility gods and horny deities.

Ageplay or petplay are mentally oriented practices. Difference in age, either real or enacted is of no importance when man meets woman. And this is exactly what the horny raven shall learn in three…two…one…

The doors of rapture swing open to a man who fits the bill of a dapper prince who looks like a king. He is a lion without the pompous thick beard. His eyes are molten and captivating, hungry to ravage the raven and her wings. He stands mighty and tall in his plain white velvet button down, his bulge secreted behind dark trousers, and hefty feet tucked in pristine leather footwear.

“Regency Adviser,” Thyme gesticulates in reverence and frolic. She knows too well to leave a good first impression. What she does not know is that impressions do not always last. Especially not to the man who ordered a kinky butt plug.

“The name is Ari, and I am pleased,” he mimics, appeasing her kindness and sincerity. His munificence makes her smile from ear to ear.

“Age?” Ari asks.

“To turn twenty-six two moons from now.”

He somewhat frowns, “I wanted someone young. The age throws me off. I need someone younger,” He has a mind to turn his back.

Thyme quickly stops him, “Wait. I can … I can do ageplay. Let us do ageplay,” she proposes, tugging at Ari’s sleeves.

“How do you propose?”

“What if I pull my hair back?” She aims to please, “What about this, huh?” She haggles as she holds both ends of her hair like they are in pigtails. She aims to please even if she looks stupid.

“You are unrelenting. I find you agreeable,” Ari succumbs to her deal.

Thyme smiles as her eyes flit the clock, “Let us get started,” she offers.

Poor Thyme, she will learn soon enough that time will not be by her side this time.

Their garments do a maleficent dance as they undress each other rabidly. Mouths lap at each other, with tongues disappearing past teeth. She tastes like succulent honey to the renegade bee. Soon she will feel a sting that will boil and scorch her innards for eternity.

They lay astride one another in bed. She elbows her way down to revere him. Her hands pull, tug, and squeeze. She feels him growing beneath her fingers, anticipation fanning the flames of her need. Ari’s mouth forms into a perfect O as he disappears past her succulent lips. He pushes her head for her mouth to sink deeper. His member is fraught with tremors that severely stack atop each other. The titillation builds and hardens below his waist as he pushes against her face.

“Stop.” He grinds his teeth then pulls her up. He stops her from pushing him over the edge.

Her mouth hangs open, “I want more. Give me more,” she pleads. Her attacks resume as she swallows him past her gullet. His eyes roll in the back of his head. The pleasure is sensational. It latches tightly and sends shrapnels of delight up his spine, “Stop. Stop I said,” He pushes her shoulders away. Clearly, he does not want to come, not yet, “Come here,” He pulls her up again.

Ari sets her in the middle of the bed. Her hourglass figure sinks between pillows and sheets. His hands caress her valleys and mounds, appreciating the contours of a woman who now looks ten years young. He fishes a moan from her as he eases a finger inside.

Her torso bows upward then wriggles underneath him like a squiggly worm. His finger is masterful and thick. The sensation is not something she expects from an Adviser, for they have a reputation of being desiccated and dreary. He knows how to fellate.

“Honeypot … just be a comely and compliant wench, would you?”

His agile fingers mean well to explore. Her body responds heatedly at the touch, convulsing, surging, and undulating. Round and round her body spirals as she nears the apex of her greed, but only for a millisecond at least for he pulls her back to the beginning, again and again and again, “Stay still, you move too much,” Ari grunts, holding her down.

She looks at him astounded. Is she not still? Her thoughts mull over this as her legs part at the ready. And as her body moves she realizes, gosh, she really is squiggly.

Her breaths become frayed as the finger further invades her colony. There is something to be desired from a man who knows his way around every cavity. His nimble hands are a scandal as they ravish her patriotically, “Ari…” Her neck curves, relishing the delight of having two fingers inside of her. The motions are deeply stirring, round and round the fingers go … then suddenly there are three, “Ari!” she scratches his name down her throat, utterly surprised by the invasion of her privacy.

“You are getting wet. I like it,” he grunts as he sinks deeper, bending her body into submission.

Her back arches as her body bows. Tremors undulate and wrack her loins. Ari falls between her legs. Her extremities enfold around his waist as his fingers explore her sopping cave. He moves his hand with haste, torridly like a man possessed, “Yes, yes … That’s it. Scream for me. Don’t hold back.”

Her body quickens. She is very close. She squeals like a pig getting knackered by a slew of boars. Abruptly, Ari ceases his movement. He wants her sore and strained, “Not yet, honeypot … we haven’t even started yet,” His words grip her heart. It is not something Thyme expects.

With a look of frustration, she tilts her head forward, tacking her chin down, “What the— Ari? Why stop?”

“Like I said, we haven’t even started yet,” His eyes look rampant with lust and vehemence.

Her chest rises and falls, “Well then,” she gulps, “begin,” she gasps every syllable breathlessly.

A sinister grin paints Ari’s face, “Turn, my sweetheart. My friend and I will have you now.”

Her eyes widen in panic, “You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious. Now, turn and show us your crack.”

She is several degrees of unease as Ari positions behind her. His left hand clamps at her waist, while his right palms the kinky implement. Her nerves are in heated frenzy as he painfully trails outside her cavity. Folds of skin flay and thrash as the initial penetration deflowers her like it’s her first time. She yelps as his wood parts her ebony.

Ari has potency and an impressive enormity. He fills her to her absolute limits, parting, scathing, and stretching. Pleasure gives way to immense pain as he rams her, again and again and again.

Her cries fall on deaf ears. The man is lost in the realm of lust. Then, there is the calm before the storm. He slows. It is a foreboding motion that speeds her heart. She begins to sweat discomfort by the barrels. Her body anticipates the rupture but she does not know when it will hit. She swallows hard as fear overtakes her. With a sharp intake of breath she readies herself for him.

A sharp piercing cry breaks the calm. It bellows and resonates in the room, filling every corner and inlet. The butt plug burns as it invades her humanity. It scrapes and pushes her soul deep within, crashing and burning her spirit. Tears douse her vision as droplets fall onto the pillow. Her body contorts and breaks to shards as both rammers violate her.

She does not cease from crying, on and on she begs for him to stop but he does not. Her tears are a fountain with no end. The sight of Thyme’s tortured state motivates Ari to slam into her more. His sadistic nature fueled by the moans and groans from the w***e.

Their bodies quicken and so does the implement. Both dongles her body swallows. One burns atop while the other smolders below. His thrusts flamed and agitated.

Ari grunts as he explodes into an orgasm that shrouds his vision. The release mentally incapacitates him. She follows suit with a stabbing howl. Her body frees endorphins that are incomparable to the so-called runner’s high, or to the afterglow of an intense orgasm. She is a messed-up raven, soaring to the heavens, high, mighty, and proud.

Ari pulls out then laps at her succulence. Bliss paints his face as her essence drips from his lips.

We were never really united by blood, patriotism, nor soil. No, we’re not. We are bound by our loins that contort with unbridled lust. Horny cumpatriots, indeed we are.