by Amy Cross
I smile. "Well that's okay," I reply, even though I'm exhausted. "Let me -"
"Just let me do it," he says breathlessly, and I can hear him frantically rubbing himself.
"Where are you going to do it?" I ask.
"Your face," he says.
I can't help but grin. Earlier, he seemed to find it so hard to cum, and now he's about to do it for the second time. When I was with Rob, I never let him ejaculate on my face, but with Mark I actually want him to do it. "If you want," I say after a moment, "you can do it in my mouth." Reaching up, I carefully slip the blindfold up a little. I half expect Mark to tell me to put it back down, but he's too busy jerking off. He's got his crotch right in my face, with the tip of his penis just an inch or two from my mouth. As he continues to pump himself, I stare at the bulbous dome and try to prepare myself for his sperm to erupt from the little hole in the tip. Finally it happens, and a huge wad of thick, creamy white semen squirts out the end and hits my nose and upper lip. He continues to rub himself, and a second blob of semen squirts directly into my mouth, followed by a third load that spreads a stringy wad below my left eye and down onto my cheek. Another load comes out but drips down onto my neck in a translucent, cloudy white mess, and finally some clearer liquid flows out as he stops rubbing himself.
"Was that good?" I ask, swallowing the sperm that came into my mouth. I look down at the semen that landed on my neck, and I see that some of it ended up on my left breast. I collect some of it on my finger and slip it into my mouth, and then I lean forward and take Mark's hot, sticky cock deep into my throat, sucking some more of the sperm off. Finally, I let him back out of my mouth and take a deep breath, before I spread some of the cloudy, milky semen over my breasts. Mark settles next to me, still out of breath, while I reach up and feel a thick, stringy wad of sperm on my face. I'd usually be totally grossed out by something like this, but there's something different about Mark; it's as if the sperm is a sign that I got something right, and a symbol of our intimacy. There was a time earlier tonight when I thought he wasn't going to cum at all, so it feels like I've won a small but important victory.
"Have you got a mirror?" I ask, staring down at my shiny, sticky breasts.
"By the bed," he says breathlessly.
Feeling completely comfortable being naked in his presence, almost as if this is how things are meant to be, I look over at the bedside table and spot a small table-top mirror pushed up against the wall. I grab it and take a look at my face, smiling as I see a series of blobs and strings of sperm.
"You almost gave me a pearl necklace," I say, staring at my reflection. When he doesn't reply, I tilt the mirror a little until I can see his image; he's staring up at the ceiling, still catching his breath. There's something about his stare that makes me wonder what's really going on inside his mind. It's as if there's a kind of darkness in his soul that seems to come to the surface occasionally. Pulling the blindfold all the way off, I smile as I turn the mirror slowly so I can see along his firm, glistening body. When I see his cock, I stare at the reflection for a moment, almost feeling as if I want to start fucking him again. After a moment, I feel a pang of sadness at the thought that maybe we're done, in which case maybe I'll never be able to sleep with him again. When I came here tonight, I assumed it was a one-off deal with a hot guy, and I was actually pleased that there was no chance it would come to mean anything. Suddenly I feel the opposite: I don't want this to be the only time we're together, and I don't want to walk away from here tonight knowing that I'll never be with him again.
"Mark," I say cautiously.
"What is it?" he asks.
I pause. My heart is racing, and I want to ask him whether we'll see each other again. At the same time, I know Mark probably isn't the kind of guy to have a deep heart-to-heart immediately after we've spent a few hours having sex, and I'm worried about scaring him off. I suppose the best approach would be to casually see about arranging another encounter, and testing the water by maybe suggesting we go to dinner.
"Nothing," I say eventually, figuring I should wait until the right moment. I tilt the mirror to get a better view of his face, and I see a kind of blank, impassive expression in his eyes as he stares at the ceiling. Just as I'm about to put the mirror down, I spot something in the darkness over in the corner of the room. It looks for a moment like legs in a white pair of trousers, and to my shock I angle the mirror up a little and see what appears to be the torso of a person. Telling myself that it must be something else, I angle the mirror a little more and suddenly see a man's face, staring directly at me from the gloom. Assuming it must be a painting, I turn and look over into the dark corner, and I realize with mounting horror that there's a man sitting there, smiling at me. Not a painting of a man, or an image of a man; an actual man, sitting in the corner of the room and watching us.
"Mark..." I say, frozen to the spot in fear as I stare at the man. A feeling of panic is rising through my body; I should run screaming out of here, but the whole situation is so absurd, I keep telling myself I must be making a mistake. It has to be a ghost, or maybe a hallucination; maybe I'm having some kind of seizure or... There's no way a man could have entered the room without either of us noticing. Even if I was wearing a blindfold, surely Mark would have seen him...
"I want you to meet an associate of mine," Mark replies, still staring at the ceiling. "Elly, this is Mr. White."
Part Seven
Driven
Jonathan Pope
1896
The pain is intense, searing through my flesh. Every time I haul myself a few more feet along the pavement, it feels a thousand times worse: my leg is broken just above the knee, and sharp, ragged edges slice through the muscle. I need medical attention fast, or I'll die. Unfortunately, there's only one person in the whole of London who I can trust right now, which is why I've spent the past three hours dragging myself through the dark streets.
"John!" I shout, banging on the back door of the King's Arms. "John!"
I wait. It's well past midnight, and ordinarily I would never even dare to come close to this place at such an hour. Darius Wolff, the owner of the pub, is the kind of man who'd happily tear the flesh from a man's face merely for giving him a questionable look, so I can't imagine how angry he'll be now that I'm slamming my fists against his door and demanding his attention after the pub has closed for the night. Still, I have no choice: if I don't come here right now, I'll die right here in the alley, and by morning my body will have been picked clean by rodents.
"John!" I shout again, and this time I hear movement on the other side of the door. Moments later, the lock slides open and the door opens inward, to reveal the tall, imposing figure of Darius Wolff staring back at me.
"You're just in time," he says, a broad grin revealing two rows of rotten teeth. "I was just thinking I'd like to rip some noisy little bag of shit apart."
"I need John," I say, crawling through the doorway through the doorway. Before I can say another word, Wolff grabs me by the shoulders and hauls me across the hallway, before dragging me roughly down a dark flight of steps and into a dimly-lit basement. There's a scratching sound nearby, and after he drops me onto the cold floor, I hear him pushing some wood aside. "Help me," I say, feeling the strength seeping from my body.
"Meet the boys," he says as he holds a lantern close to my face. "Boys, meet your next meal."
It takes me a moment to focus on the sight in front of me. In the middle of the room, there's a pit, and down in the pit there are rats. Hundreds of rats, maybe even thousands; squirming and wriggling and climbing over one another, they squeak as they desperately try to climb up the side of the pit. Some of them are fighting, and I watch as one particular rat bites through the neck of another, severing its head. It looks like they're crazy, or starved, or both.
"The boys are hungry," Wolff says, looking down at me with contempt. "I usually throw them some old bones at the end of the night. It's been a while since they got a big, live one." Grabbing my coll
ar again, he pulls me to the very edge of the pit. "I'd like to say it won't hurt," he continues, "but that wouldn't be true at all. The last fellow who went down there, he was full of screams. Almost an hour, he kept it up. I imagine you'll find his bones if you sink down deep enough, but you know what they say about London. Anyone who stays here long enough, ends up with rats chewing on their corpse."
"I need John," I mutter. "My leg's broken. I need help."
"Fuck your leg," Wolff replies. "Your leg's the least of your fucking problems." With that, he tosses my body into the pit. I land on a bed of squirming little furry bodies, and as I try to steady myself, I hear the wooden cover being slid back into place, and everything goes dark. With my leg still burning with pain, I roll onto my back, but finally I feel a sharp pain on my hand as one of the rats sinks his teeth into my flesh; as soon as they get a taste for blood, they all start attacking together, and soon I'm being bitten all over. I struggle to rise up from the pit of rats, but with a broken leg I can barely even move, and all that happens is that I start sinking down into the bites. Finally, just as it feels that I'm going to die here, I manage to pull together one last burst of energy and I force myself to stand. Although the pain in my leg is intense, I'm able to push the lid off the pit and haul myself out. Rolling over, I brush a few remaining rats away, before sliding the cover back across.
"Impressive," says Wolff, sitting on a nearby barrel. "No-one's ever managed to get out before."
I open my mouth to reply to him, but I'm out of breath and I barely feel human anymore. I look at my hands and see that they're covered in small bite marks.
"I always thought that if anyone got out," Wolff says, walking over and crouching in front of me, "that I'd just send 'em straight back in. But do you want to know something weird, Mr. Pope? Turns out I've got a heart of gold. Wait 'ere." He gets to his feet and walks up the stairs, leaving me gasping in pain on the cold cellar floor. I try to drag myself across the room, but the pain is too stark and eventually I'm forced to just wait until finally I hear footsteps coming down to join me. I'm still out of breath, and I'm starting to think that maybe I should have just let myself die. At least this would all be over.
"Here's your man," Wolff says.
Summoning up the remainder of my strength, I look up and see that Wolff has brought John the Pig down to me.
"I don't want anything to do with him," John says, staring at me with a look of fear in his eyes. "Why haven't you just thrown him to the rats? Do you know what he's been up to?"
"I did throw him to the rats," Wolff replies. "He crawled out."
"Seriously?" John narrows his eyes. "I suppose they didn't want to eat one of their own. Still, Pope and I didn't part on very good terms earlier tonight. In fact, one might say we had quite a run-in. I don't see why I should help him."
"Consider it an experiment," Wolff says, turning and heading to the steps. "Think of it as practice, in case I ever need you to operate on someone who actually matters. At least if this bastard dies, you'll know what not to do next time."
Once Wolff has gone back upstairs, I'm left alone with John. He walks slowly around me, keeping a safe distance as he tries to assess the problem.
"So what is it?" he asks eventually. "You've got a lot of rat bites, and God knows what diseases they'll bring, but I'm assuming there's something else."
"Leg..." I gasp, pointing to the spot where I'm hurt the most.
"Leg?" He kneels next to me and roughly prods my leg; I scream as the agony shudders through my body. He prods me a couple more times, clearly enjoying the fact that he can cause me such pain. "Right there, huh?" John asks. "What about here?" He touches me again, a little higher, and once again I scream. "And here?" he asks, reaching out to the spot just above my knee.
"Do that again," I say through gritted teeth, grabbing his hand and forcing it away, "and I'll dip you head-first into that fucking pit until your flesh has been eaten away."
"Tough talk," he says, but I can see from the look in his eyes that I've made my point. He pulls his hand away. "So you've got a broken leg, huh? That's got to hurt, Pope. That's got to hurt a lot. Think about those broken bones grinding together, ripping into your flesh. All those jagged edges." He pauses for a moment. "You've got two options. The first option is to just wait here and hope it heals. It won't, of course, but at least it won't be as painful as the other option."
"And what's that?" I splutter, keen for him to get on with it.
"I can operate," he says. "Granted, I don't have the resources of the Royal College, but then I also lack their scruples, and I reckon you've got to take what you can get. A licensed professional wouldn't touch you for dirt, but I'm willing to have a go. No promises, mind, but I might be able to patch you back together." He smiles. "Of course, I'm not exactly blessed with anything that might numb the pain, but the good news is that you'll probably pass out eventually. Anyway, you know what the priests always tell us. Pain's good for you; it's bleach for the soul."
"Do it!" I shout, with sweat running down my face.
Leaning closer, he runs a finger over my forehead. "You're already sick, Pope. I hope that's from exertion, rather than a sign of infection. I want to be totally clear: if you develop an infection, you're done for. I can't even begin to help you. So this is still a very risky procedure, but there's a chance it'll work."
"Do it!" I shout again.
"Fine," he replies, getting up and walking over to the far side of the room. "Fortunately, you're already in my office. Wolff keeps me down here, out of the way." He pulls out a bag of equipment and comes back over to me. From the bag, he produces a large white sheet, which he lays out on the floor. "It's not the most sterile thing in the world," he mutters, "but it's better than a floor covered in rat piss." He smiles. "And cat piss. And dog piss. And, if I'm brutally honest, my piss." Without any warning, he grabs me and roughly rolls me onto the sheet. I let out another scream; it feels as if the two edges of my broken leg are grinding against one another.
"If it all goes wrong," he continues, "I might decide to amputate. Of course, there'll be a lot of blood either way." He pulls some tools from his bag. I watch as he sets a couple of saws and hammers, and a large set of industrial pliers, on the sheet next to me. "You might want to make your peace with your maker, Pope. There's a good chance you'll be meeting him shortly, although I do want to assure you that I'll do my absolute best to get you all fixed up nicely. I have pride in my work, even if I recognize my limitations." He takes a large, serrated knife from the bag. "I'm ready," he says finally, holding the blade close to my face. "You ready, Pope? You ready to feel this slice through your meat?"
I nod, desperate to get it over with.
"Try not to scream too much," he says, pulling my trousers down to expose the bare flesh of my leg. "Oh, this looks nasty, Pope. This is going to hurt a lot. This might well be the most painful thing I ever do to a man."
"Get on with it," I say.
"You're the boss," he replies.
Seconds later, I feel the blade of the knife rip through the surface of the skin, accompanied by the ragged sound of my skin being torn. I squeeze my eyes tight shut and let out a grunted scream as I feel John cutting through my flesh and muscle; the pain is so strong, it feels as if it's rushing through my entire body, almost as if it has become my soul. For what seems like an eternity, and with hot sweat pouring down my face, I feel John's blade cutting and cutting and cutting, slicing through my leg as hot blood pours down onto the floor. I manage to hold in the screams, but I'm definitely starting to think that death might have been preferable to such an ordeal. Unable to contain the agony any longer, I start screaming as I feel John's blade start to grind through my bone.
Elly
Today
Rushing out of the bedroom, with my clothes clutched to my chest, I stop when I reach the door. My mind's racing so fast, I'm not even able to form proper thoughts; all I feel right now is the uncontrollable urge to get as far away from here as possibl
e, to hide from my shame and embarrassment. My heart is pounding, though, and in my panicked state I fumble with my dress.
"Fuck!" I mutter under my breath, as the fabric twists in my hands.
"Elly," says a voice behind me. At first, I don't turn around. I just keep on struggling with the clothes, not even bothering with any underwear. "Elly," the voice says again.
Turning, I find Mark standing naked next to me. Without a second thought, I push him away before I continue trying to get into the dress. In my frustration, I find the damn thing is still twisting and stretching, and I can't even work out which end is which. Instead of pausing to get it straight, I try to force the issue and finally the entire front of the dress rips open like a cheap piece of tat. I hold it up and realize it's ruined; worse, it's the only thing I can wear when I walk out the door. What am I supposed to do now, walk out of the hotel naked?
"I have some clothes you can borrow," Mark says, his voice hushed and strangely blank.
"I don't want your fucking clothes!" I shout, before realizing I have no other option. I try to think of some solution, anything that'll save me from accepting his offer of help. I hate the idea of taking a single thing from this asshole, but I guess I've got no choice. "Fine," I say after a moment, throwing the tattered dress onto the floor but refusing to look over at him. "Give me something. Fast."
He turns and slowly walks through to the bedroom. I hear muffled voices from inside, before he returns with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. "These aren't ideal," he says as he comes over, "but they'll keep you respectable for the journey home. If you wait just a couple of minutes, I can drive you."
"Go fuck yourself," I mutter, snatching the clothes from his hands. As I'm about to pull the trousers on, I notice Mr. White walking through from the bedroom. To hide my nakedness, I immediately turn my back to him while I pull the trousers all the way up and fasten the button. He's already seen more than enough of my body tonight; there'll be no more free shows.
