So, after hailing a passing rickshaw and enduring the spine-shattering helterskelter round the seedier parts of this already filthy city, we drew up at the gated entrance to a large estate that sat back away from the main drag the way an old man hunched before the fire leans back on one buttock to blast forth and ignite a methane holocaust, in whose sad blue flames he may see the shimmering faces of lost and former loves – and, perchance, a glimpse of pussy.
Not an inviting sight at the best of times, which – considering our sinister locale and the encroaching evening – these were quite obviously not.
Gleeson flipped a column of punched-out florins at the panting ‘shaw-punk. “Hey up, Nutcracker, away and fetch some choice bones for your good lady wife. Now then, Foxhead; shall we dine?”
With an undersea glance he ushered me enthusiastically down to the sewer which ran along by the cart’s metal-rimmed wooden wheels, blind to both the stench and the depth of the effluent in which he stood ankle-deep.
“Come. Hurry.”
Taking his gloved hand I stepped reluctantly down from my clean dry elevation and into this slaking ordure. A tingle of fear shot through me as I thought at first that I had lost my feet to the slime. Gleeson as ever had anticipated this and readjusted his hold, clenching my wrist so it threatened to snap, and helped me onto the pavement.
With the rickshaw making a suspiciously hasty getaway and me stamping whatever the Hell it was from my only pair of presentable shoes, Gleeson busied himself with the bell built into the Gothic, marble-column gateposts.
“Battleships lost at sea...” he gleamed as I approached him. “Don’t look so afraid, wee Foxhead,” he continued. “Anyone would think this was your first time on hallowed ground.”
I suppose he had already clocked the dread in my eyes. I denied the insinuation outright. “How dare one be so bold!”
“Yes sir.” He punched my left shoulder. In the dim distance, a crumpled-over figure carrying a feeble lantern was making his funereal way down the gravel path towards us.
“Doctor White,” the lantern-carrier greeted my schoolchum, “How kind of you to greet us with your distinguished presence.”
“Doctor!?” I exclaimed, as the wretch wrestled with the cumbersome gate.
“Duke, this my very hairswidth friend, Vincent Lavender – Foxhead as he is to be addressed,” Gleeson introduced me.
“I am privileged, Foxhead.” He extended a weak and arthritis-ridden claw, which I shook tentatively.
“Now...” Gleeson gathered me under his wing, “...this here is the Duke of New York. That’s what they call this place, you know. New Fucking York.” He roared with laughter.
Inside the “brothel” I was met by such unrestrained sights of carnality as might feature in some demonic debauch in honour of Satan himself. My clothes, soiled and sticky as they were, were quickly peeled from me by a trio of naked ladies wearing false pigheads; grunting with swinish, mud-swilling pleasure at my fast-approaching nudity. Gleeson watching the rape bemused as I frantically clutched at my socks and gaiters.
All about me. Men. Women. Children. And, to my astonishment, they, shaven of all body hair, were indulging in such vile acts of degradation that I feel sick to my stomach even now. Ah, to taste again that virginal vomit...
Shhh, who’s that? Eerie horror sounds fall away silent.
So, with Gleeson as my lowly guide, I was shown more of this establishment’s lurid clientele and voracious, low-life acts.
Passing one open door from which frenzied shouts were emanating, I halted to witness a crowd of baying gentry, on their knees before a baited grizzly-bear cub that was being set upon by a pack of seven little naked girls with Chinese finger-hooks and razor-belts; their sobs of pain eaten up by the viewing rabble; their white bodies ripped beyond recognition by the cub’s claws; their tiny breasts sliced open, mauled into grotesque mammary grins; their bald heads tattooed with obscure calligraphics. The arousal of the bear-cub aptly illustrated by the angle of its fleshy erection; immune, it seemed, to the multiple lacerations along its throbbing length.
The girls performing balletic leg-lifts, showing off their blood-red pudendae to the audience and urinating bright green when they were inadvertently caught in the horny creature’s malicious embrace.
“Piquant,” Gleeson glimmered; deriding.
On past many other doors down a paneled corridor, all of them firmly closed on their atrocities, to an open door four from the end on the left. Gleeson elegantly curtsying his buck-naked request for my entry into the room beyond.
I remember standing there in my socks and gaiters, physically shaking, afraid to move, nailed to the shagpile by the apprehension of what revolting horrors lay ahead.
“Foxhead!” Gleeson suddenly shouted, jolting me from my torpor, “Any time before the Solstice!” And he smiled that utterly insane smile that I’m now convinced he had been conscientiously perfecting since his graduation from Brighton Grammar.
Inside the spacious boudoir, soft-lit in violet, was a luxuriant double divan dressed in jaune silk sheets and sporting numerous pillows fashioned from a similar, if not identical, fabric. There was a pungent claustrophobia to the air; a fruity perfume that like an eel or snake wriggled and slithered its nauseating way down into the lungs with my each shallow breath.
“Ha!” jeered Gleeson, “Sentimentalists swallowing their mothers in Summer. Sit, man, sit.” He closed the oaken door firmly behind me. “Drink?” he asked.
Again I must have shown a strange face, for he added: “I’ll take that as a yes, then shall I?” I nodded madly. My palms wet with perspiration. As was my top lip; a family trait, the wet upper lip. Always thought that was very Freudian; or maybe Jungian.
The door swung, unannounced and impromptu, ajar.
Startling me so that I let out a shout which made Gleeson drop the decanter he was emptying into two large crystal tumblers. Whilst in through the open door there swept, like Autumn leaves in a stiff breeze, the naked female trio who had so professionally stripped me. Their regimental manner unnerves me still.
They shooed Gleeson away from his cursing and onto the bed, softly laying him down beside where I, in my highly bothered state, had been laid out. I had not protested at their orders nor, at first, had I noticed that as well as the pighead masks they wore, their breasts, large and round and white as I remembered, had been transplanted with baaing heads of ewe.
Amazing trick – I thought at the time.
Time indeed seemed to linger idly by, like a bellboy impatiently awaiting his tip. One of our “hostesses” left the room under no obvious instruction, returning warped moments later with a solid silver tray upon which were arranged a selection of peeled fruits and spices, while the remaining femmes serviles had donned shiny, lubricant plastic gloves and were busy working Gleeson’s and my own dick to a suitable stretch of arousal.
“Fucking amoeboid.” Gleeson glimmered; his second favourite face, I declare.
“How’s that?” I asked, finding myself less and less able to understand his rapidly thickening dialect.
“Cat smooth. Eggshell slippery,” he emoted, grasping the porcine face of his masturbatrix and slobbering luridly into her snuffling snout. Pulling away his bright face, wet with pigspit, and taking with his teeth a fruit segment proferred by the third maiden; my hand-maiden oinking riotously while she wanked. The room had become a menagerous clamour of squeals and laughter and slurps and lechery.
It was at about this point in the farce that, I believe, I first began to panic.
My oinking hand-maiden dipped her masked head over my groin and began sucking my erect dick with her pig-lips. I could feel the tiny pigteeth behind the hairy, rubbery lips, the coarse pork tongue working abrasively against my tender rim. “What the fucking Hell do you think this is!?” I shouted at the very top of my voice, pushing the woman from me and rising, hysterical, to my socked feet.
All four of them were gawping, gobsmacked; utterly astonished at my immature outb
urst. They were all staring at me, dumbfounded. I noticed one of the girls looking at my erection; standing proud.
“It’s a fucking trip, man,” announced Gleeson. And all was loud humour once more. “Sewer deep, luncheon hydraulic. Have a piece of orange.” He shakily offered me the heavily-laden silver tray.
“Fuck the fruit!” I shouted. This brought even louder laughs, for some sick and twisted reason. “And why have these sluts got pigheads!?” I screamed at the sudden lonely silence. Again four rather serious, accusing countenances.
“You’re just being sow-er, man.” Faces close to bursting. “Why so pigged off?” Giggles spurting from the sides of mouths. “Oink you happy here?” Immense explosion of mocking laughter.
The orgy resumed. Gleeson, fighting against the amorous tide of swine mouths, hands, sucking breasts of ewe, cunts moist with chuckling, still proferring the silver tray. Eyes brightening ever wider. I felt a cynical hand reaching ashamedly for the fruits; took a lemon-coloured segment and popped it into my mouth.
The room, quite accidentally I believe, fell on its side. I laughed until my lungs ached and I felt my bladder was going to rupture.
It must have taken the girls some time to help me back onto the bouncing jocularity of the divan, for as I was welcomed back into the many female arms a feverish, sweating heat had befallen me, and every other around me.
I remember finding this most amusing. And as pigheads and eweheads sucked and slurped at my cock; my mouth; my ears; my bollocks; my toes; my fucking toes... and having thought “my fucking toes”, in a trice was one of my rampant escorts’ boiling cunts engulfing my left foot.
She took me in to the ankle, head back, the muscles of her arms veined and pumped up from pulling me in. Though I could no longer see, since there was a ewebreast before my eyes into which I had a mad compulsion to insert my tongue, I could feel my shin slipping further into the woman. I could feel the hairs on my leg brushing inside her uterus, pressing up on her womb-silk.
My toes touching... her ribs?!?
I shot to a seated attention. She was there; on her back; legs in the air; my left foot now swallowed up to the fucking knee... ah, not again I thought, having made the metaphorical mistake and having my leg disappear inside her body to the thigh.
Hot hands pulled me back to the bed. I ignored them and looked to my immediate left.
Gleeson was on his back, face contorted with perverse pleasure as the woman rode him, her bleating breasts and snuffling snout utterly fiendish. Suddenly from the open door came another naked maiden.
But she was very different.
Her Chinese head was bald of hair, and bore only the most basic suggestion of features. Her skin was pale; bleach-white. As sickly a shade as I’ve ever witnessed.
Colour aside, she seemed physically normal until she strolled round to Gleeson’s side of the bed. Haunting the place usually set aside for the pubis was a small elephant’s head complete with nervously flapping veiny ears, curved ivory tusks and, jutting from the pelvic bone above her vaginal mouth, a long and inquisitive trunk.
“I can smell your thoughts, you naughty boy,” the Chinese woman confessed as her groin-snorkel tasted his forehead exploratively.
Gleeson glimmered and gleamed, shuffling to lay across the bed, his head slung over one edge; “And I want you to screw them. Work me over, you rag-burning honey.” Having given this request he took the trunk in hand and guided it down his own throat. Sucking her off while she smiled at me in her polite Oriental way. Gleeson bucking with choking ecstasy beneath her.
She extricated the trunk with a flick of her slender hips; Gleeson like a hungry fledgeling champing for more.
“Come on, give me some more of that. Fuck my eggshell brains out.”
The look she gave him would have turned flame to ice. And, though close to orgasm myself, I could not avert my eyes from this battle of wills in order to enjoy my own pleasure. She took his head by the ears. Gleeson’s mouth opening and closing impatiently. But instead of plunging the trunk in, she impaled the lethal tusks into the top of his skull.
Gleeson let out such a horrendous and horrific scream that I ejaculated with shock, my body fighting peristaltics as I watched on; enthralled.
Ruthlessly, the Chinese woman impaled the tusks once more into his broken head, screwing his brains to pulp.
On went the destruction, Gleeson’s face splitting, nose dividing, until at the height of the brain-curdling his body jolted; as a result of the elephant head in his cranium, or the strange woman jumping up and down on his cock, I know not.
But jolt he did; throwing off his sex-rider; hurling aside the Chinese; a gushing deluge of excreta ejaculating from his gaping brainpan.
“Fucking Egg Shell!!” he screamed, as out of the cranial fissure three foetal forms, covered in silky grey fur, flopped. Siamese triplets joined at the point of the lacerations they were busy inflicting on each other with claws and teeth and desire. All red and dripping bodies matting black in the feeding frenzy.
The trio crashed to a slushing mess by the unseated pighead woman as she struggled to regain her bearings through the fog between her ears. Her pink head sporting a neat bruise, cut to a gaping lump. Instinctively, like a shark in the presence of blood, the trio – one frenzied form – pounced upon the dazed woman. Gouging and gnashing out great wet burning bleeding chunks of flesh. Her porkhead squealing. Ewebreasts protesting with deafening bleats. Her plastic-gloved hands punching gaping wounds through fur.
Pulling back bloody stumps.
To my further astonishment, the remaining women seemed totally oblivious to the death of one of their own.
The woman with my entire left leg up her hot cunt was still bucking like fury. I cared not that my socked foot was peeping out of her mouth. Cared not that her fingers were pulling off the sock and gaiter so that her thin pink tongue could protrude between the toes; cared not for the Chinese bitch who had turned over the dead carcass of Gleeson White and perched herself behind his bare arse, and had shoved her elephant trunk deep inside his anus only to pull it out, lick brown faeces from the wrinkled leathery tip with her cunt-mouth then shove it into that effluent passage once more. Cared not for the woman at my prick, wanking me off in all the right ways with her smooth conic fingertips and snuffling in my belly-button for truffles. Cared nothing for the sour stench of sex and slaughter. What disturbed me was the fact that the foetal mass that erupted from Gleeson’s brain had reared itself up onto its highest hind legs and was looming drunkenly over that side of the bed, licking its many lips and leering with its many eyes, bringing with it the truly nauseating stench of its mashed guts and faeces exhalations.
Ever so casually, it began to topple towards us.
I remember in my daydream scrambling away from the falling hulk. And, as I clambered dizzily to my feet at the door end of the room, witnessing the uncloaking of the truly nightmarish, tearing all my senses to shreds. The humungus struck the occupants of the bed with a wet and bone-crunching thud. Instantaneously, it tore into the Chinese whore, still buggering the lifeless casing of Gleeson White, with gargantuan glee; ripping her featureless head right from her shoulders. Her spasming trunk, as she fell back off the bed, spurting a gangrenous sewerage high into the room.
The far side of the abomination munched great lumps out of the dead Gleeson White, while some other insane part of it devoured a pigheaded whore from the feet up. The look on her porcine features as flint-edged teeth chomped and crunched one of her legs while she kicked out one of its roving eyes with the other; that horrible squeal of her breasts; eyes like bolts of lightning as it sought out and chewed to a pulp her clitoris. The only surviving whore was trapped on the far side of the room, urine trickling down the inside of her white legs.
“Run!!” I shouted, holding out a hand. She looked at me and squealed. That distress call shot through me; chilling.
“Quick!!” I urged as the monster on the bed was in momentary respite, busy licking its lips.
No sooner had I screamed that final word than she was leaping over the edge of the bed, grabbing sweatily at my outstretched hand.
Saved.
Until that rash impression turned into yet another disgusting red herring; for as I pulled her to me her pigface began to split, her mouth widening grotesquely, and she was snatched from me, dragged to the beast by a maniacally-mutated arm. She squealed and squealed until the top of her head was gnawed off, her pathic eyes weeping blood. I turned from the horror and ran into the corridor, which was now carpeted in shrimp fur and husks of salt-cured oyster tendon; bedraggled with barking ropes of giraffe blubber.
Each door I frantically yelled at was locked. Even the far door where I had espied the baiting of girls and bear was locked; from the inside.
I raced into the reception area but it was devoid of men, women, children or even their shaven pets. The air stank of violets. I threw up onto a highly-polished circular ebony dining table I had failed to notice on my disrobed arrival.
The carriage clock in the corner by the front door proclaimed a deafening midnight.
As the chimes rang out their solemn knell I shook the locked door in its frame until the glass shattered, showering my naked body and bare left foot with shards of glass. I fell back to the wooden floor, spitting curses. My trembling hands picking out bits of jagged glass from my knees, shins and feet. The pain unbelievably amplified.
There was a rasping sound behind me. I spun round.
There, lumbering its horrendous way towards me on all fours, was the remnant of Gleeson White. His bare back was all scarred and pitted from his attempts to escape. His arms dislocated, it seemed, from his shoulders black with bruises. When he raised his buckled and twisted head I thought I would die on the spot.
The skull was distorted to elephantine proportions.
Big grey ears a-flapping, cooling the searing heat of his wounds. Its ivory tusks curved up out of his eye-sockets, the eyeballs still a-watching, perched at the ends.
The Starry Wisdom Page 21