Boston Posh

by Wol-vriey

  It had gotten worst when she’d reached puberty. He’d never been certain if Rachel was taking refuge in her books as a refuge from boys or not. But then she’d shown no interest in girls either.

  After a while David Fischer had stopped worrying about Rachel’s apparent sexlessness. In a way, he was even pleased. She differed from her mother for whom the social life was life itself. Having two such women under the same roof would have been too much for his peace-loving soul to cope with.

  ***

  David reached the tree ladder and began climbing. Some of the metal struts were shaky, and at sixty-four he wasn’t as nimble as he used to be, but he managed to reach the tree house without difficulty.

  He sat on its front porch, looking across the overgrown mansion grounds. He thought he saw movement in the grass. He wondered what creatures might lurk there.

  He thrilled with the danger and speculation. Maybe even saber-toothed tigers might return again.

  Damn, he thought, wincing, what the hell is wrong with me? Saber-toothed tigers? As if the world isn’t screwed up enough already.

  He pulled his mind away from the grass. What he’d come out here to do was more important. He needed to know if it felt like he’d imagined it would.

  He stood up on the tree house porch and unslung the rope from around his shoulder.

  Weighing the grappling hook in his hand, he surveyed the closest trees, finally settling on one with a branch projecting a good way out from its parent bough.

  He swung the grappling hook at this. It caught on the second try, looping around the branch and embedding its barbs in the bark.

  After a few tugs to ensure it was firm, David Fischer gripped the rope and launched himself into the air, swinging for the tree.

  Me, David; you, Sara, he thought happily as he flew through the air. Yes, this is right. I feel great. Wooooo! I’ll bring Sara out—

  His thoughts were abruptly truncated when the dragon ate him.

  The dragon’s glittering body flashed over the Fischer Mansion like a bolt of transparent lightning.

  Its massive jaws clamped down over David Fischer, truncating him from the thighs upward. His severed legs fell to the ground. The rest of him was in the dragon.

  It flew away with a bloody smile, chewing on this unexpected morsel it had found.

  David Fischer didn’t die immediately. While in agony, being masticated by the horrendous jagged jaws, bleeding to death, and also asphyxiating from oxygen lack, he experienced a kind of glorious exaltation—an understanding of what caveman death had been like.

  ***

  The servants found their master’s legs the next morning. They identified them by their hairiness.

  ***

  “We can’t say he was eaten,” Sara had told her daughter while weeping profusely. “That’ll make us a laughing stock. It’s one fucking thing being a widow, totally another having everyone thinking your dad was a kook. Whatever will the Rothschilds, for instance, say?”

  “What do we say killed him then?” Rachel asked.

  She was even more distraught than her mother, totally unsettled since hearing the news. She however agreed with Sara as to the need to maintain appearances for status’ sake.

  Sara dabbed at her tears. “He fell. From the roof, while taking the night air. A portion of the banister came loose and he plummeted to his death.”

  “Rachel nodded. Then she burst into tears herself. “Yes, mother, he did fall, didn’t he?” She stopped crying for a moment. Her face was already growing puffy. “Only I don’t know, mother; what on earth was he doing outside swinging in the trees? Father has never struck me as that kind of person.”

  ***

  Sara had mourned her husband, whom she loved deeply. She was technically still mourning him.

  His death however had one unexpected effect on her. She became slutty—determined to fuck her way into the grave.

  It was odd, but whenever she thought of her dead husband, she never saw his face. The image that reared up before her eyes was of his cock, his rampant erection about to penetrate her, to escort her to erotic bliss.

  With him dead now, it became her mission in life to sample every penis she could. Her aim was to return to that sexual place David had always taken her to.

  CHAPTER 7

  Posh

  Posh Lane was twenty-four. She was gorgeous and shapely, with shimmering auburn hair.

  Now, naked except for a blue bathrobe, Posh stood outside Mr. Reuben’s bedroom door.

  She knocked twice. There was no answer, so she let herself in.

  Mr. Reuben was in bed, naked and feigning sleep. He lay on his back, hand draped over his crotch to cover his erection.

  “Mr. Reuben, Mr. Reuben,” Posh whispered, “Wake up, sir. It’s time for breakfast.”

  Mr. Reuben opened his eyes and regarded her. He was a distinguished gent in his fifties with silver-grey hair, bushy eyebrows and sideburns, and a mustache.

  “Is that you, Genevieve?”

  “Yes, sir.” She raised the bottle of olive oil she was holding. “It’s time for your breakfast, sir.” She smiled. “I’m sure you’re hungry after the night’s rest.”

  Mr. Reuben nodded. “Yes, I’m ravenous.” He looked at her reproving. “But, Genevieve, you’ve left the tray of food downstairs again.”

  Posh giggled fruitily. “Oh no, I haven’t, Mr. Reuben. I’ve a surprise for you today.”

  She quickly undid her bathrobe. “See, doesn’t it look delicious?”

  Mr. Reuben gasped at the sight of the MASSIVE cucumber that poked from her crotch in its special strap-on harness like a farm-grown erection.

  She tapped it, causing it to bob up and down. “Here’s your breakfast, sir. Is it big enough?”

  Mr. Reuben nodded. His erection throbbed in his crotch. Sweat had begun beading on his forehead.

  He sat up and licked his lips. “It looks scrumptious, Genevieve, and I’m really hungry. Bring it to me! Let me eat it!”

  “And how will you eat it, sir?”

  He looked shocked by the question. “With my mouth, of course. How else?”

  Posh gripped the cucumber like the fake penis it was. She shook it menacingly at Mr. Reuben. “Oh, so you want to chew on my cucumber?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  She scowled in mock anger. “Oh, not today. You’re a greedy fucking pig, Mr. Reuben, and I’m going to fuck you as punishment.” She jerked her hand on the vegetable dildo. “Oh yes. It’s your tight little butthole that I’m feeding this breakfast to. It doesn’t eat cucumber regularly enough.”

  Her expression turned serious. “Now lie back down and lift your legs up to your chest.”

  Mr. Reuben looked horrified. “Oh please, Genevieve.” He gaped at the cucumber. “It’s so massive, my butthole can’t stand it!”

  “Do it,” Posh said testily. “Assume the position at once or I’ll get an even bigger one.”

  Mr. Reuben hastily complied, lying on his back, raising his legs to his chest and clasping his thighs tight. “Please, Genevieve, forgive me—my anus isn’t hungry.”

  “Shut up,” Posh said, with conviction now. She’d moved from mere play acting into actually becoming the dominatrix maidservant whose role Mr. Reuben was paying her to play. Her clitoris was burning like it was on fire, her pussy felt like one of Hell’s fiery pits—she was that aroused.

  She smiled at Mr. Reuben’s genteel face with its gunmetal hair. He was clearly as aroused as she was now. The veins on his cock visibly twitched. He looked into her eyes in an agony of anticipation.

  Posh quickly lubricated the cucumber with the olive oil. She squirted some more into her palm and greased Mr. Reuben’s anus, sliding two fingers into the tight hole and finger-fucking him with them, while jerking him off slowly.

  “Have you changed your mind?” she asked throatily, fighting to keep her own excitement from her voice, to still sound severe. “Is your butthole hungry now?”

  “Yes!” Mr. Reuben gaspe
d.

  “Are you absolutely certain?” Posh stopped fondling and finger-fucking him. “Now that I think about it, you may be right. This breakfast might be too big for you—”

  “No, It is just the right size,” Mr. Reuben interrupted her in a hoarse voice. “PUT IT IN RIGHT NOW!” He reached between his legs, took the cucumber in both hands and guided its oily length into his anus.

  The massive vegetable went in smoothly, deep to about three quarters of its ten-inch length. Mr. Reuben lay back and gasped like he was in heaven.

  (When she’d originally taken on this job, Posh had been afraid that the cucumber might break inside Mr. Reuben’s ass, leaving them with the problem of extracting it. But no, she later discovered that the strap-on was very cunningly designed. Each cu-cumber was anchored to the harness by a plastic corkscrew that penetrated its entire length. Even if it broke it would hold together.)

  Posh began fucking Mr. Reuben hard in the ass, trying to keep the strokes slow and firm like he liked it. It was hard going—her burgeoning excitement made her want to fuck him like a rapist, till she saw blood pour from his asshole.

  She managed to keep herself focused, however, jerking him off in time to her strokes into his ass. She watched the expression on his face change, going from the merely pleasurable, to the outrageously tantalized, then finally, just before his orgasm, to a rictus like he was in exquisite pain.

  While she did him, he caressed her breasts, fondling and squeezing them. At one point he pinched her right nipple so hard she bit her lip from the pain. But it was good pain—it helped her keep her mind on fucking him at a measured tempo, not the butt-rape her own pleasure was inclining her toward.

  And while his pleasure increased, so did hers. The inside of the harness rubbed against her clitoris, lifting her high on wings of sensation. She’d cum herself any moment now, possibly before him even.

  “Oh, yessssss!” Mr. Reuben gasped as his cum squirted. It arched through the air and splattered his chin and chest.

  “Oh, shit!” Posh gasped. She came and came.

  Mr. Reuben lay back happily. Posh fucked his ass hard while her orgasm ran its course. Then she collapsed on him and gripped him hard.

  “Oh, Genevieve,” Mr. Reuben groaned. “I do believe today’s is the best breakfast I’ve had in a looonng time.”

  “Me too, Mr. Reuben,” Posh said with deep satiated sincerity. “Me too.”

  ***

  Afterwards, they had the cucumber for breakfast. Posh first scrubbed it clean and peeled the rind off, then she cubed the white flesh and mixed it up with eggs and other veggies in a salad.

  After this, Mr. Reuben paid her. Eight hundred dollars. “So I’ll see you on Friday, Genevieve.”

  She smiled and bent to kiss him. “Of course, sir. Assuming the dinos don’t eat me before then.”

  He laughed. It was a popular saying in modern Boston.

  Posh got dressed in her own clothes and left Mr. Reuben’s apartment. He lived on the third floor of the skyscraper.

  Herbie would be waiting downstairs for her. While descending the steps, she smiled. Her shared orgasm with Mr. Reuben had left her feeling nice and tingly.

  She felt really positive about today.

  That was until she got in the car with Herbie.

  ***

  Posh gaped at Herb. She felt like killing her pimp.

  “Beth Riggs asked for a special session? And you fucking accepted? Are you nuts? You know that woman is crazy.”

  Herbie knew. He grinned guiltily.

  Herbie Stanton was thin and weasel-faced with dark hair and eyes. He looked naturally untrustworthy.

  “Take it easy, Posh,” he said. “I’ll be there. She won’t do anything stupid.”

  Not do anything stupid? Nothing stupid? The words revolved around in Posh’s head like the solar system. Beth Riggs not do anything stupid?

  She regarded Herbie with tired brown eyes. Herb, you idiot, how the fucking hell can’t you see that that crazy bitch is going to kill me one of those days?

  Herbie patted her hand soothingly. “We can’t turn Beth down, baby. She pays real good money. And since today’s a special request, she’s offered us a bonus.”

  Posh considered. Herbie was making a valid point here. One never turned down good money. Money was everything.

  “Okay, let’s go,” she said coldly. “Just make sure you’ve got my back in case she gets funny.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Malone

  Malone drove through Chinatown.

  Like he’d suspected would be the case, Rachel Fischer hadn’t come home last night. That meant the clock was ticking—time fast running out for his client’s daughter.

  With no idea where to find ‘Frank,’ Malone had decided to seek help . . . of the supernatural sort.

  ***

  Chinatown Park thronged with prostitutes of all races and ages and sexes. The mob of women, men, and hybrid sex workers thronged the chessboard by the paifang gate with disregard for any danger.

  There was no dragon danger here.

  All the prostitutes plied their trade in Chinatown for the same reason that the Boston Grid ended at Essex Street, Chinatown’s northern border: China-town’s immunity from dragons.

  Dragons never attacked Chinese people.

  ***

  The Boston Dragon grid—or just The Grid—had been the ambitious undertaking of the Boston City Council in the days before the sheer overwhelming immensity of the changes to the world had dawned on anyone.

  The Grid extended outward in a rough hexagon from Boston City Hall.

  (Its northern limit was the curve/angle formed by New Chardon Street and the John F. Fitzgerald Sur-face Road. Its east boundary was the same Surface Road descending to Purchase Street. South, it ended at Essex Street, right at the boundary of Chinatown. West, it terminated in a zig-zag line formed by Tremont, Park, and Bowdoin Streets.)

  The idea behind its construction was a simple one: build a dragon-proof protective shield over Boston’s lower levels.

  The only construction material capable of withstanding the dragons was wiven, a metaloplastic stronger than tempered steel. And most important—utterly fireproof. Building a meltable shield would be pointless.

  The work had initially proceeded fast, with everyone understanding the need for speed. Like a spreading cobweb, the wiven shield had expanded across the city, shutting off the streets and roads from the transparent fire breathing reptiles that were Earth’s new reality.

  Then construction had halted.

  There’d been a pay/union dispute, and all the Chinese workers (whom no one realized were the reason the dragons hadn’t been attacking the construction companies), had gone on strike.

  Calling their bluff, work had gone on. Less workers meant more pay for everyone.

  Work had continued until the next day.

  Unknown to the workers, a herd of dragons were nesting in the New England Aquarium. The dragons flew inland that morning while the crew were setting up the grid suspension pillars and fried and ate everyone. Similar dragon ravages decimated the other construction crews.

  That was the end of building The Grid.

  The Grid was a strange construct. At a height of sixteen feet above the ground, it covered everything, like central Boston was sheltered underneath an endless bus stop, or was part of the world’s most extensive subway station.

  The Grid protected Boston’s lowest two storeys. Just about everyone higher up than that lived in skyscrapers, the insect-buildings possessing in-built defenses against dragon attack.

  CHAPTER 9

  Malone

  Ma Cure — real name Lin Yi-Chun — lived in a solitary three-tiered pagoda in the middle of China-town Park.

  The building had previously been a temple, then a theater for classical drama. Now with most of the actors/actresses eaten by dinos (against whom the Chinese weren’t immune), Ma and her daughter Jade had taken the building over.

  Ma was a well-respect
ed elder in the community. No one contested her ownership of the old pagoda.

  ***

  Malone parked his Mustang outside the mob of prostitutes and walked to Ma’s place.

  Whilst crossing Chinatown Park, he was again struck by the oddity of such dragon-free airspace existing in Boston.

  “Dragons remember ancient kinship,” Ma Cure reminded Malone when he saw her. “Dragon, legend creature we Chinese give life. Always thankful for this.”

  Malone nodded. It was as valid/invalid an explan-ation as any he’d heard.

  And no less odd than the woman explaining it to him.

  Ma Cure was a wizened old head transplanted onto a nine-year-old female body. Her hair was straggly and as white as a bleached sheet.

  Ma’s old head and young body were held together not by surgery, but by a thin wrap of yellow paper with Chinese script written on it.

  “Old Country magic,” she’d told Malone more than once. “Flesh lock strong than steel.”

  (This was one thing about Ma Cure: Her English was horrible. “Too old learn American,” she often said proudly. “Me old-school Guangzhou woman. Leave Jade learn. She young—throat talk good American.”)

  “You’re saying that you can live forever like this? Just keep switching bodies?”

  Ma Cure nodded. “Unless grow bored, of course.” She’d laughed and stroked her thin hair with child-fingers.

  Then her expression turned girlish, coquettish. She pointed from her top-floor window at the milling prostitutes on the heaven-earth chessboard near the paifang gate, then she tapped her crotch meaningfully. “Need new body, Malone. Much sexy men downstairs. Little girl pussy useless.”

  They’d both laughed.

  Now Malone told Ma: “I need to consult Yang Yang.”