Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

Momentarily dazed, Numie came to as a sweat-soaked cloth was being stuffed into his mouth. His voice was muffled. He tried to protest, but it was no use.

  Mitch gripped him under the armpits; and Jeb grabbed his ankles. The men raised him up only to dump him on his back on the concrete floor. The metallic click of the ensnaring handcuffs resounded in Numie's ears.

  The impact of the concrete caused his blood-soaked head to loll to one side. He was too weak to move. Whimpers were escaping from his throat.

  Minutes went by before anybody touched him. He kept opening his eyes, then blinking them shut. What were they going to do to him? Fearful sounds of anticipation bubbled up.

  A rough thumb lifted one of Numie's eyelids. "You're really scared, kid," Mitch said. "With good reason, I might add."

  The handcuffs were biting into Numie's skin. Jeb was tying his feet.

  Suddenly, Mitch's probing hands were traversing his chest. "So young and beautiful," he said. "How sad it has to decay."

  Numie was writhing at the man's touch. Mitch's thumb and forefinger came together in a nerve-shattering pinch of Numie's nipple. Numie gasped. Mitch's hands traveled lower, reaching the pubic hair. There they slowly pulled, as Numie squirmed in pain. Then the fingers reached out and enclosed his cock.

  Numie tried to struggle up, to wiggle away from that hand. But a slap sent him back on the floor again. Mitch gripped the cock tighter, applying more and more pressure.

  Numie's chest was heaving. Breathing through his blood-clogged nose was hard. The wheezing sound coming through the cloth lodged in his mouth was heard around the room. The cords of his neck stood out like ropes.

  Jeb's fingers enclosed his testicles. "They're such nice ones," he said to Mitch. "Do we really have to cut them off?"

  "Of course," Mitch said. "He might impregnate some fine lady and bring yet another life into this miserable world. Make a person endure the torture I've had to."

  Sprawled on the hard concrete, Numie was sighing with pain. Hoisting himself up, he was knocked down again. Beyond humiliation at this point, he waited to die.

  Jeb was yanking at Numie's sac, seemingly trying to pull it from his body. Then his fingers encircled one of his testicles, squeezing it hard.

  Eyes bulging, Numie moaned loudly. Electric shock traveled his quivering body.

  "I want to enjoy this up close," Mitch said. "Do what you must, Jeb."

  Mitch straddled Numie's chest, holding his shoulders back against the concrete. "I always like to stare into the eyes of the victim while the cutting is being done. It isn't the cutting I like so much, it's the look on the face of the victim. At first, the slicing is very slow. It doesn't hurt. Then you begin to feel the real pain. You won't be able to stand it. But nature has her own protection. As the cutting gets deeper, you'll pass out. That's when all the fun goes for me, and I lose interest." Holding Numie's cheeks between his hands, he asked, "Do you want Jeb to masturbate you? It'll be the last time in your life you'll be able to achieve orgasm."

  Numie's head snapped from side to side to show his refusal.

  Then it's time to begin," Mitch said calmly.

  A cold metal object was placed on Numie's genitals. It felt dull—not sharp at all.

  A sudden force of energy shot through Numie. Heaving his chest forward, he unseated his rider. His knees found Jeb's chin as their target.

  Then, for the first time, Yellowwood's face at the barred window came into view. How long had he been watching?

  Both assailants got up and retreated to their bunk. A steel eating knife was dropped to the floor.

  Yellowwood opened the cell and entered. "I see the boys were having a little harmless fun with you," the sheriff said to Numie. He roughly pulled the gag out of Numie's mouth and moved to untie his feet.

  "They were going to kill me," Numie said, sitting up.

  "Hank and Dave put you in the wrong cell," Yellowwood said. "Sorry about that."

  Numie shouted. "You did this to torture me."

  "Watch the accusations," the sheriff said. "You could be in more trouble than you're in now. And you're in plenty of trouble. "

  Hank came in. He removed Numie's handcuffs. Numie rubbed his raw wrists, then held the doth gag to his bloody nose.

  Dave entered with Numie's jeans, tossing them on the floor. "Put on your pants," he ordered. "Quit showing your bird to all these perverts."

  "Damn you!" Numie yelled.

  "Now, now," Yellowwood cautioned. "Overlook that, Dave. The kid got roughed up a little and he' s overly emotional. Mitch is just up to his old tricks. Right, Mitch?"

  Mitch didn't answer.

  "And so are you, Yellowwood," Numie charged.

  "I'll forget you said that, boy," the sheriff replied. "To show you how generous and considerate we are around this hotel, I'm going to let you make one phone call."

  "Who do you know in this town?" Dave asked Numie. Now fully dressed, Numie stood in the corridor in front of the phone. "Leonora de la Mer," he said. "She's hired me as her chauffeur. Get her on the phone. She'll straighten out this whole mess."

  "De la Mer," Dave said. "It figures. That broad's the only one in town crazy enough to hire you. She's always hiring beatniks. Gets you cheap—that's why. At least that explains marijuana cigarettes in blue paper." Dave dialed her number. "Speak to her secretary," he said.

  "Anne," Numie said tentatively into the phone. "It's me, Numie."

  "Where are you?" asked the voice.

  "In jail."

  "I see."

  "What do you see?"

  "Most drifters end up there before the first forty-eight hours," she said.

  "I need help. Could I speak to Leonora?"

  "Of course."

  A sudden silence and then another voice was on the phone. "This is Leonora de la Mer. What do you want with me?"

  "It's Numie " he said, his voice desperate. "I'm in jail, and I need help."

  "Numie?" she asked. "I don't think I remember you. But then I meet so many people in the course of a day."

  The deputy was listening in on the extension. He decided to break in. "Miss De la Mer, this is Dave. You know, the sheriff's deputy."

  "Dave?" she asked.

  "Yeah, you know me."

  "I know Mr. Yellowwood, you mean."

  "Anyway," Dave continued, "this kid here was busted. Carrying around a blue-wrapped marijuana cigarette, the kind you smoke."

  "I beg your pardon," she said. "And I don't know that young man."

  "Leonora, I was just at your place," Numie protested. "I'm in real trouble. I lifted that cigarette from your study."

  "Dave, as you call yourself, it sounds to me that the young man you've incarcerated is a thief," Leonora said. "However, I won't bring charges, if that's why you're calling."

  "That's not why I'm calling," Numie said. "I need someone to bail me out."

  "The young man is obviously insane," Leonora said. "Apparently, he steals from me—how he got into Sacre-Coeur, I'll never know—then he wants me to bail him out. You must admit the whole suggestion is outrageous."

  "Leonora, please," Numie said. "I've been tortured."

  "You know that's a lie," Dave said.

  "I have pressing business to attend to," Leonora answered. "I can't involve myself in any more of these absurd conversations" She slammed down the receiver.

  "But she does know me," Numie said, holding the dead phone in his hand.

  "Of course, you've met her," Dave said. "I'm sure of it. But if De la Mer says she doesn't know you, man, she means what she says."

  Bent and defeated, Hadley L. Crabtree was walking down the corridor of the jail. You could smell his breath, flavored with cheap wine. His clothes—the same outfit he wore the night he'd picked Numie up, were as stale as his breath.

  "Thank God you're here, Numie said. They've busted me."

  The lawyer looked at him strangely—as if he didn't recognize him at first. "Busted! I'm so tired of hearing that I could die."

  "It
's true," Numie said. "I need you to help me."

  "You didn't listen to my free advice," Crabtree said. "Which was to get out of town. I think I told you not to come here in the first place."

  "The sheriff's got it in for me."

  "He's got it in for everybody," Crabtree said. "I lost three cases today. Got any money, boy?"

  "Not a cent," Numie said. "But if you get me out, I can work it out and pay you back."

  "That makes one thousand guys—and girls, too—who have used that line on me. I'm an old man. I have to get money for my work."

  "Please."

  Dave walked up beside Numie. "He's got to get back to his cell," he said to Crabtree. "You going to represent him?"

  "No," the lawyer said flatly.

  Numie sighed. "The only liberal in town. I'm entitled to some kind of defense."

  "We'll take care of everything," Dave said to Numie. He motioned to his desk. "Crabtree, you old grandpa, I've got a bottle in the bottom drawer. Take the rest of it home with you. You've got some more court cases coming up tomorrow, and the sheriff wants you to be in real good shape."

  Numie stared at Crabtree—almost defying him to go to that desk, to take that bottle.

  Eyes down, Crabtree made his way to the desk.

  Dave's hands were on Numie's back, shoving him down the long dark corridor.

  It was two o'clock in the morning. From his bunk bed in a lone cell, a stirring of life came to Numie. Someone was shining a flashlight in his eyes.

  "What in hell?" he asked, adjusting to the harsh light. From the corridor, the lights were switched on. The other prisoners started to wake up.

  There, under the cruel glow of an exposed electric bulb, stood Lola La Mour. She was floating in printed silk organdy in vibrant lemon and chartreuse. Beside her was Yellow wood, aroused from sleep.

  "So, there you are!" Lola screeched.

  "How did you find me?" Numie asked.

  "I called the sheriff," she said. "After all, you made off with my two dollars to get that tube of Vaseline. Remember?"

  When you didn't show up all night, I sent out a call for help. You fitted the description."

  Yellowwood was unlocking the cell. "Why didn't you tell me you were Lola La Mour's boy? This whole thing wouldn't have happened."

  "How did I know?" Numie asked.

  Lola rushed into the cell, pulling the sheet back and exposing his nude body. She gave him a quick professional appraisal. Approving, she reached for his jeans. "Into these, stud," she said, "and then we're getting out of this rathole. Nothing in here but perverts." She glared menacingly at the sheriff.

  "Lola," Yellowwood said apologetically, "I'm really sorry about this."

  "Sorry!" she shouted. "You're sorry? When the commodore gets back from the mainland and hears about this-that's the time to be sorry!"

  The sheriff motioned to his deputy. "He had this," he said, taking the marijuana cigarette from the man and handing it to Lola.

  She examined it carefully. "Yes," she said defiantly. "He had this because I gave it to him. It was presented to me by De la Mer, and I passed it on to Numie. Thank God we've got it back. I could use it right now." She held the cigarette to her mouth. Yellowwood reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. Its flame outlined the glow of Lola's face in the darkened cell. She inhaled deeply, then looked at Numie. "He needs this more than we do," she said, passing the cigarette to him.

  Numie took it, staring first at Yellowwood, then at Lola. He put the tip to his mouth and sucked in the smoke.

  Then Lola took it back, leading the way up the corridor, her high heels clanking against the pavement.

  "Hey, baby, look what I've got for you," a bearded shrimper yelled, waving his cock at her.

  She abruptly stopped in front of his cell looking at the prisoner, her face a mask of contorted charm. Then she took her cigarette and jabbed it into his nest of pubic hair. He jumped back screaming.

  "The next time you see a lady, creep, act accordingly."

  Outside the jail, Lola's sports car gleamed in the moonlight. She stood to the side, as Yellowwood rushed to open the door.

  Numie got behind the driver's seat, accepting the slightly crushed cigarette from Lola.

  "Anything I can do to make this up, Lola," Yellowwood said, "just let me know."

  She ignored him.

  Out of the parking lot and up the darkened street, Numie steered the Facel-Vega and sucked in more smoke from Leonora's blue marijuana cigarette.

  Johnny Yellowwood faded in the rear-view mirror.

  Chapter Seven

  Numie braked the Facel-Vega in front of Commodore Philip's.

  He rubbed the hammerlike throbbing in his forehead between his eyes. His whole body ached.

  "I hope you're not too worn out to perform," Lola said.

  "Yeah," he muttered. "I can still get it on. Too bad, though, I'm in such rotten shape for my premiere."

  "We have the whole bar to ourselves tonight," she said, turning the key in the lock.

  Commodore Philip's was completely deserted, except for a lazy calico cat on the comer of the bar. He aroused himself slightly at the sight of Lola and Numie, then settled back into sleep.

  Swinging his legs over a bar stool, Numie eyed the booze. "I need a stiff one."

  "So do I, handsome," Lola said, "but I think we're talking about two different things."

  "Later, later," he cautioned. "First, the machine has to be lubricated. In minutes, the liquor was racing through his body. "Now for the big question. Who in hell is Commodore Philip? Jesus Christ with gold balls?"

  "My lover man," she said, pouring herself a drink.

  "Is he a real commodore?"

  "Sort of," she answered matter-of-factly. "Owns a boat or two. Commodores and sea captains are always gay, darling. They learn it during those long voyages away from women."

  "I don't know about that, but do you really have something going with him?"

  "He's devoted to me," she said. "He worships my every move. I've been with him for years. Came to work as a maid. That was a long time ago when I had dyed my hair red. He took quite a fancy to me."

  "And he allows you to go around whoring?"

  "Please," she said. "Watch your language in front of a lady. My commodore and I have worked out a compromise. He has a bad heart condition—one so awful he could go at any minute. When I started working for him, he thought I was real pretty. I started peeling everything off—everything except my red panties—thinking he wanted to ball. Then he told me the sad news. All he wanted was for me to parade around in front of him—doing lewd things." She sighed. "It was hard for me to think of anything lewd seeing that I'm a lady. But he told me some things he wanted, and I did them just to please him. I felt sorry for a man who can only watch."

  "Maybe that's what he really digs," Numie said. "Like your friend, Yellowwood."

  "No friend of mine," she said. "The sheriff's a real sickie. But my commodore is very gentle. He just whispers encouragements while I get it on with a super stud."

  "The commodore must have a lot of pull in this town if you can just walk in the jailhouse and get me out while blowing smoke up his nose."

  "My commodore is a very rich man, and Yellowwood is on the take. He was just a cheap crook in the bolita racket until my commodore bought the office of sheriff for him."

  "When will the Commodore show up? I'd like to meet him."

  "I bet you would, sweetie," she said, fingering his chin. "I'm sure he'd like to meet you too. With my Commodore, one never knows. He just pops up on the doorstep. His real life's on the mainland. He never lets me go there, though. He claims he comes to Tortuga for 'slumming'. I told him, 'Don't associate me with no slum'. He didn't, of course. My pad upstairs is very elegant. Why don't you come up and look at it? Plus what other sights I might be showing."

  Lola's apartment was a mass of white. No color anywhere, except in her face.

  To furnish it, she'd dipped heavily into her experie
nce of watching Jean Harlow and Joan Crawford movies. Lack of access to the rich furnishings once available to those two movie queens hadn't stopped Lola. She resorted to what she could find at the local stores and the city dump. Coats of white paint and yards of shiny white satin had brought renewed life to the opulent taste of another time.

  In the middle of the living room stood a Victorian adaptation of a Louis XV chaise longue. The central place for Lola's operations, a way station en route to the bedroom. Hanging near it, melted tallow covered the missing or substitute bits of an overscaled chandelier. Beside the chaise stood a round ornate reed table—dominated by a lamp with a shade fashioned like an artificial lily .

  Opening onto the living room, the bedroom invited with a high-posted brass bed, again enameled a glistening white. A shirred satin canopy shaded it, and filmy draperies were held back by garlands of make-believe roses and lilacs. Carefully placed against the headboard were pillows, each one different in shape, but all lacy and feathered around with fringes.

  Everything designed to remind one of a heady background for seduction.

  Lola held up a rhinestone-covered box beside the bed. "In here are some of my beauty aids. You'll forgive me while I make myself more alluring—if that's possible." Into the bathroom she disappeared with the box.

  He slipped out of his jeans, tossing them on the white carpet.

  Moments later, Lola was back. "Wow!" she yelled, squealing with delight. "I wonder if I could lose weight dieting on weenies all week." She was wearing nothing but pink panties, red Joan Crawford fuck-me shoes, and that platinum wig. Though it sagged in parts, her body was actually like a girl's" tiny breasts forming contours on a slender frame that was emaciated. Her mouth was painted a turkey red. She wiggled her hips over to the bed.

  "These white satin sheets are a little much," he said, patting them invitingly.

  "Men perform better on satin than cotton," she confirmed.

  "Let's give it a try." He grabbed her, cupping her tiny breasts and pinching the nipples until she screamed.

  "You're hurting me," she protested.

  "And you love it!"

  Her only response was a soft moan before plunging her mouth onto him. Suddenly, she jumped up. Her back to him, she lowered her panties, revealing her buns. Then she fell on the bed, butt up. "A five-alarm's fire's raging in me," she said.