Stonedogs

by Craig Marriner

Barry: ‘And me. In his time, that’s cunt’s diddled us out of enough fanny to start a fucking cat-house franchise. It ain’t happening tonight, and that’s a promise.’

  Steve: ‘Yeah, keep an eye out while we’re playing, wool yu, Mickey. If Lefty moves in, I’m straight up there.’

  Barry: ‘Oh, sweet. Two birds from that group we’ve been joking with are on the table next.’

  Mick: ‘Could be time for you lads to throw a game. I’ve got dibs on the redhead.’

  Steve: ‘The redhead? She doan look a day over fourteen! I’m guessin’ she pencilled the bouncers in for hand-jobs just t’ get through the fuckin’ door.’

  Mick: ‘You must’ve mistaken me for a man who gives a shit. After all, in the best traditions of the Catholic Church: “once they can crawl, they’re well in position”.’

  Barry: ‘I’ll drink to that. Steve? Which one you want?’

  ‘The short-haired blonde wif the hooters.’

  Barry, summarising: ‘And I’ll take what I can from the leftovers. Hold my cue while I nip off for another snort, yeah?’

  7

  Saturday, 11 March, 1.27am

  Me, whispering: ‘Nice house. Anyone home?’

  She eases the door shut, locks it. ‘Only my auntie, but she’s upstairs. Once we’re in my room she won’t hear a thing.’

  I’ve barely let her beyond my touch since The Moment arrived — that subliminal juncture in an encounter with a chick when you suddenly realise it’s spit-swapping time. Since her demand that I take her away; the hurried conference with the lads, their hoots and jests; Lefty’s sullen glare — loam to my eyes.

  Down the long hallway her hand stays in mine, a finger stroking my palm, as she’s done in the taxi for half an hour now: the sexual equivalent of Chinese water torture.

  Into her room. She leaves me by the door to light a candle. Hunched over it, mis-striking a match or two, dim light finding purchase slowly.

  A tiny frown, the sluttish clothes, leave her looking suddenly vulnerable, like a child lost to darkness on The Stairway. I shut my eyes against the pathos of the image. As if clairvoyant, she crosses to me in a vein too similar, sudden uncertainty in her step, a stare of artlessness holding mine.

  So I’m taken by surprise when she shoves me hard against the wall, awaits a riposte.

  Hands behind my head, effecting a ragged poise, holding her eye like a hostage with Stockholm Syndrome.

  And then, enchantingly deliberate, her fingers begin to pick at the fly of her trousers.

  A button at a time … staring me down …

  Something inside slips its leash and I take her face in two hands. Breath arrives in a hiss; teeth clacking noisily; tongues and lips mashing together.

  She pulls me to the carpet, tearing buttons from my shirt, tossing her own top into a corner, working at my belt …

  In less than a minute we’re starkers.

  Then, for an instant, a sense of surreality paralyses me: a peasant pawing forbidden silk … guards at the door … ‘Apologies, Your Majesty, he’ll soil you no further.’

  But as she pushes me flat, climbing aboard, I embrace my fate with a luscious shudder. This woman is gorgeous … utterly … and I’m about to bonk her! Me! G. McPike, Arch-Treasonist and failed philanderer! Oh, cheer till his ears hurt, all ye sinners!

  I give extra thanks as she reveals her contempt for foreplay: taking my todger with nails alone, tugging the skin back sharply, rubbing it along her gash, three or four times, stirring those juices, heaven’s own nectar …

  I can’t describe myself as the most impressive buck in the market, but neither am I the least, and with this honey straddling me, big — exquisite — breasts in my face, the mother of all hard-ons I’ve laboured beneath for a good hour now is gifted an extra inch of pure lust.

  Teasing me to pants …

  … impaling herself in one lithe motion.

  Forgetting in a rush the inadequacies of my bean-pole physique, my soon-to-be hairy chest — factors she hasn’t seemed to notice — her clenching wetness is almost too much for me — or is it the heady notch I suddenly add to that big Bedpost in the sky? — and my gasping cry drowns hers completely.

  Immediately, she brings her feet forward, squatting, and declares the bout under way: lifting high, bouncing and grinding. Faster. Wriggling like a proper lady would never.

  Taking a nipple in my mouth; lips rejoicing to feel it swell; suck on it hard; bite down till she tenses. In one hand cupping a delectable arse-cheek, free thumb kneading the top of her pussy …

  Sparing a moment of gratitude to the booze and amphetamines coursing through me. For without them I know I’d’ve blown my load already; would’ve been lucky to get it from my pants intact. As things are, on past form, I’m confident of putting in a good twenty minutes at ‘the coal face’.

  A good thing, because it isn’t long before Wonder Woman’s fucking like Armageddon’s upon us, descending with such abandon I’m soon in delicious pain, the beginnings of bruising across my hips.

  And within a minute her moans are growing in volume, her rhythms frantic. I watch her eyes roll back in her face, wildly haloed in raven hair.

  Can it be this easy? Christ, let it be so! C’mon baby, come for me!

  Meeting her thrusts, I pull her head down to mine, kiss her as deep as I can, hiss into her ear: ‘I want you to come!’

  She only nods, features twisting, and when I feel her tightening, I pull out, lifting her up, sliding down in the same motion, executing a slick muff-dive. At point-blank range, her musk affects me like another line.

  Before she can comment — You’d better pull this off, man, or you’re garbage — I slide two fingers home, twisting them frenziedly, slurping at her clit, rasping it hard, gripping a tit in one hand …

  She sits up straight, groaning, pushing down on me, the orgasm taking her in long waves.

  Some people name me the space cowboy!

  She relaxes at last, easing up from me, and I pop out the back door, turning around, pushing her to all fours. Leering at the splendour of her bobbing arse, I guide myself in, ram home with authority.

  Some name me the gangster of love.

  One of her hands snakes underneath, jostles my balls, and she straightens, leans back until her head’s on my shoulder, scented hair smothering me. With a palm and forearm I massage her baps; work at her snatch with the other hand; suck on her neck.

  ‘Ah, god, you’re not a woman, you’re a fucking fantasy!’

  She drops to her elbows, shoves against me with her hips, but I hold her still, give it to her hard and steady, kneading her cheeks, squeezing her jugs, feeling The Man and pulling faces to match.

  I adopt the double-bass position: one hand tweaking a nipple, the other her clitoris — just like the musician — loins pumping merrily. Strokes weighted to perfection — withdraw almost clear, plunge in hard, part those sweet lips — my hips divinely cushioned, and she’s soon moaning again. When I judge her close, I forsake the double bass and push her to her stomach, driving home the big ones, rooting at maximum revs.

  But it seems I’ve made my move too early: her climax refuses to arrive; I struggle to maintain the sprint. Wish I hadn’t shoved her forward. Can’t reach her clit like this. Must be what she needs.

  A minute later I’m dripping sweat and about to swallow my pride, throw in the towel, when, squealing, her back arches and I feel her flange shivering around me.

  Thank fuck for that.

  Seconds later, she softens like putty and I pull free, lying beside her, panting hard.

  Soon, she begins to kiss my chest; moving down until she’s nestled in my groin. In one hand she takes my love-truncheon, skinning it slowly, licking its length with just the tip of her tongue, tickling my balls …

  This ‘torture’ protracts for minutes; I’m the first to break. ‘For fuck’s sake, woman, will you get to work!’

  Her eyes taunt me as she strokes, maddeningly sluggish, taking me in her mouth at last
, sucking hard, bobbing …

  Wiggling my hips, bucking softly, stroking her hair, her face, reaching down to knead her hooters, praising her ‘aptitude’ in extravagant groans. At intervals she breaks off to — oh, so practically! — trap her hair behind an ear, and in horn stakes this act takes the toll of at least five strokes.

  Orgasm for me is still confidently distant when she surfaces a long while later. I kiss her deep, probing her mouth, move to enter her, but she stops me, turning around, making the connection herself, riding me reverse, massaging my balls, studying the penetration.

  This is not fucking happening to me!

  She leans back until we’re lying together, sharing sweat, my mutton-musket at right angles, though holding station gallantly. I bury my tongue in her ear, hugging her hard enough to hurt, then roll her off me, positioning her for missionary. Of her own accord she hoists her knees until they’re scratching her ears, tits jutting in perfect half-orbs.

  And gazing over her, in a moment of sheer reverence, I come close to blowing the whole thing, confessing my unworthiness of her sublimity, blurting the social fluke that gave me a window.

  But she rescues me again, reaching down, wanking me like a woman horny beyond measure.

  With no hands I enter her — Hole-in-one, brother! — and she hooks her ankles over my shoulders, rubbing herself while I fuck with the poise of someone who does this often. Grinding; swinging those hips.

  A few minutes of this and she’s up there again, begging me not to stop; I lay in the big ones. She comes again, throwing her pelvis at me. Her nails scrape at the carpet, at me. Head tossed one way, the other way; eyes clenched shut; breasts bouncing to her pants.

  And, without warning, that I’ve reduced a girl like her to such a state, shocks me so bad my erection begins to wilt.

  But I’ll have none of it, slipping free of her growler, shifting until I’m straddling her chest, gripping her head, directing my womb-broom straight at her mouth. She takes it with gratifying haste, slurping, moving her neck like a head-banger.

  Watching her clean me of her own juices turns me on close to blowing.

  But, clearing my mind of her — picturing a castration by rusty guillotine — I keep the wolf from the door for a good two minutes, daydreaming merrily. When at last she stops, looks up at me, she sounds dishevelled near to breakdown. ‘Jesus Christ, do you ever come? I feel like I’m shagging Lucifer here!’

  Not sure what flatters me more, her words or her tone, and in answer I take the mouth south again, perform a five-minute workout on the old tongue-punchbag, stopping only when my fingers and mouth refuse to box on.

  By now she’s communicating only in whimpers, and I feel like god pouring molten gold down unfaithful throats.

  Thou shalt not thrill.

  Rolling her compliantly over. Enter from behind. Fucking solidly, picking my way to the summit …

  As jaded as she is, she seems to guess when I’m near, reaching underneath to tap at my balls, sucking my finger …

  … hammering home like a human jackhammer …

  … unleashing several litres of baby-gravy …

  … more …

  … and still more …

  … the orgasm stripping me of all force.

  Unsaddling. Slumping to the damp carpet — record-breaking winner of the Death Valley Marathon.

  Me, much later, drawing on a cigarette: ‘At this point I traditionally play my cards a lot closer to the chest, but I’m prepared to go on record right now as stating that that was without doubt the finest root I’ve ever fucking had.’

  She sounds half asleep, but in the weak light her teeth glow gently: ‘Thank Christ for that.’

  Saturday, 11 March, 2.09am

  As loaded as Barry is, he knows that at this point in time he could be blindfolded and hog-tied and still stand a better chance of piloting The ’Dan to safety than Mick does. On the rare occasions Mick drinks, the dude doesn’t believe in half measures; seems to follow a subconscious impulse to purge himself of the desire for another six months or so, and Barry knows that only the cocaine in his system leaves Mick still conscious; in possession of his supper; remotely coherent.

  Lefty, on the other hand, throughout the night seemed to shrink further into himself the more lines he snorted. Instead of chilling him out, amping him into party mode, to Barry the cocaine looks to have sapped Lefty of his usual self-possession, perhaps twisting his thought processes through frequencies he’s not used to; has few defences in place. From time to time he’s patently attempted to snap himself free of this introspection, begin another of the hallmark anecdotes he never seems to finish, waffling from subject to subject, but Barry found that all he need do was bleed a little ambiguity into his grin and Lefty would falter with delightful haste.

  Even better, mention how Gator might be getting on right now — a tack Mick, despite his state of near obliteration, twigged to instinctively — and Barry can almost see the amphetamines and booze corroding Lefty’s smugness.

  Because despite all the flak Lefty’s copped in the years since teenagehood began, all the humiliation, all the mockery, all the shit he’s been made to eat — a lot of it force-fed by Gator — Lefty could always take comfort in the fact that he held in his hand one almighty trump to be played at will; to be tactically thrust down the throats of his detractors until they gagged. He may have been physically weaker than all his ‘friends’, less able intellectually, less courageous, less trustworthy, less liked, but at the end of the day he could coax into bed, or steal, almost any girl he chose, and for this, in male circles, a telling riposte just doesn’t exist. So long as he never pushed it too far, Lefty knew he would always be viewed by his ‘friends’ through green-tinted spectacles, and no matter how they derided him, this ultimate power was his to wallow in and his alone.

  Was.

  They locate The ’Dan; opt to kick back on the bonnet for a spell, smoking.

  Barry: ‘Man, I’d love to know what lines Gator used on that bird. She’s the most beddable piece of babeage I’ve laid eyes on in yonks and she practically sucked him off right where he stood.’

  Mick, full length on the bonnet: ‘I regon he coulda fuged her in the dunnies if he’d wan’ed to.’

  Barry: ‘How ’bout the tits on it, eh, Lefty? What’s the bet he’s giving those the old “famished bambino” even as we speak?’

  Lefty, muttering: ‘Maybe.’

  Mick: ‘Man, he mussa chatted her sweeeeeet, ’cause I saw her knog a few cats back beforehand.’

  Barry, all innocence: ‘You had a yarn with her for a bit there, didn’t ya, Lefty? I thought you woulda given her the come-on, a hell-babe like that?’

  Lefty, laughing the suggestion away: ‘Fuck off, man. I don’t do darkies. Not even for practice. I’ve actually got some standards.’

  Barry, helpfully: ‘Oh, na, sometimes you do, bro. Remember Natalie Winiata? Tamara Walker?’

  Hastily: ‘Oh, yeah, but I was off my face on both those nights.’

  Mick, equally obliging: ‘Well, ya weren’t really, were ya? An’ if ya were, what about Hine Te Papa? She’s a lot darker than those other two — and than that thing Gator pulled — and you drove us all back to your joint that night.’

  Lefty, chuckling roguishly: ‘And since when did being slaughtered ever stop me from driving the lads around?’

  Knowing what’s coming, Barry resists the urge to suggest, Since always?

  Mick, still musing: ‘Welllllll, ya can’t of been all that slaughtered. Considering we drove frew two checkpoints on the way to your crib and you were breath …’

  Lefty, hurriedly: ‘I’ve gotta take a slash.’ Shuffles away.

  In their inebriation, Barry and Mick are unable to cork the mirth until Lefty’s beyond earshot — or perhaps, in their states, diplomacy’s just something they can no longer be arsed with — and they fall about each other, spluttering and snorting.

  Mick, a minute later, sobering with the suddenness of the well-toa
sted: ‘Where the fuck’s Steve, anyway?’

  Barry sighs. Mick’s asked this question several times since Steve left the club with the ‘short-haired blonde with hooters’. ‘He bailed with that slut, bro.’

  ‘Ohhhh, that’s right. How come he scored and neither of us did?’

  ‘Because you were so smashed you spilled piss all down the redhead’s blouse, and I couldn’t decide which one to hit on properly.’

  Actually, one of the remaining two had all but asked Barry home, but with Gator gone he’d felt obliged to hang around, keep an eye out for the others.

  Not for the first time Barry finds himself pondering this phenomenon: how when the chief cabalist isn’t along on a mission, or disappears for some reason, or gets himself too fucked-up to function, he, Barry, can often be found doing ‘the right thing’ to the point of character assassination. It’s not a conscious choice — Barry can see that in hindsight; just seems to happen. He wonders if his actions are inspired by concern for his mates. Or perhaps by a deep-seated need to impress Gator. But Barry once blamed this latter as the cause of a lot of the mad shit he pulls.

  He shrugs it off. His interest was academic anyway. We are what we are, and to fight that is to bend and spread.

  Even now, as a couple of dickheads walk by, staring just long enough, Barry swallows the impulsive Can I help you ladies? This despite the booze in him at last outweighing the cocaine’s ebullience, fuelling the thirst in his knuckles for that intimate smock. For the first time since snorting, he rubs the ‘sweet spot’ of his knee, the part that contacted the oinker’s head; relives the sensual impact that jolted him like a stun-prod, which, like pure oxygen, blew roaring life into the dark embers that smoulder inside him.

  But he wouldn’t feed them now. Couldn’t. Who’d get Mick home if he, Barry, wound up in the cells, in hospital? Lefty? Like fuck.

  Besides, with what they had on the boil rapidly approaching, Gator’d be even more disappointed than usual by Barry rushing the trenches alone.

  Barry’s next urge, a split-second behind the first, is to ask the young dudes how they’re doing, how their night seems to be shaping. To shoot a bit of that socialising shit, as he loves to. Enjoy some fleeting male bonding, often the most rewarding strain, certainly the safest.