“You’re my dad,” Jerald said.
“Yes, I’m your dad,” he agreed. He brushed a gloved hand over Jerald’s head. “I’m so sorry. I never knew about you.”
Jerald looked up in defiance. “How come you left my mom?” he demanded.
The man laughed softly. Jerry had two dates with Susanne before he told her that he was a gravedigger. As had happened many other times with women, she found his occupation morbid. He knew better than to argue, and he certainly could not change what he did, so they ended their short relationship.
Jerry had never forgotten the beautiful blonde, and he knew what a difficult decision it had been for Gertie to tell him that he had a son. Susanne was independent, and it had cost her dearly to take care of Jerald on her own. The love for her showed in the young boy’s face, and it was obvious that no matter what faults Susanne had, she had done a good job by their son. Susanne tended to be self-centered and impetuous, and Jerry was overwhelmed when he learned that she had chosen to name the boy after him. Instead of a flat brass plaque marking her grave, Jerry was designing the headstone for Susanne from a unique marble slab he had kept covered in his studio for years.
Gertie had always known who Jerald’s father was, but she respected Susanne’s wishes not involve him with her son. Susanne clung to Jerald as if their relationship was a tenuous lifeline, making the rest of her world a necessity that was bearable. When she died, Gertie knew she could not raise the boy by herself. Her heart was breaking when she placed the call to Jerry, knowing that she risked losing the boy as well as her best friend. “Are you going to take him from me, Jerry?” Gertie asked.
“No,” Jerald cried, and he pulled away from the man and hugged his aunt, his thin shoulders heaving with his sobs while she ran her fingers through his hair.
“What room are you in, Gertie?” Jerry asked in a hushed voice.
“Five… with one foot in the ally.” Gertie began crying softly again, when she realized Suzanne would no longer be there to help defend their position.
“It might work out for all of us if we all just kinda’ stay together,” Jerry suggested. “I gotta’ big enough place, Gertie, and you could do worse. It would certainly be the best we could do for the boy.”
Gertie left the club and they moved into the caretaker’s house with Jerry. The man showed Jerald a stack of notebooks he kept on a shelf by the fireplace. They contained the obituaries of every person he had buried and made a headstone for, and Jerald calmed considerably about living on the edge of the graveyard. He would walk up to the graves and introduce himself, and tell the person he knew their past. It seemed less frightening knowing the person beneath the ground had families and jobs, and accomplishments they had managed while they were alive. To Jerald, the dead were still in a twilight area where he could know them.
Jerald put fresh flowers on his mom’s grave every day, and he spoke to her while he groomed the weeds from beside her memorial. Living in the cemetery isolated him from having many friends at school. It was just too creepy for them to accept, and the tall brooding boy with the unnaturally pale blue gaze seemed better suited walking among the tombstones rather than the halls of their school. Jerald did not mind. Due to his mother’s profession, he had always been alone… except for his mom and Aunt Gertie. Now, he had a father, and his dad began to teach him how to engrave headstones. By the time Jerald was in high school, he could etch them almost as well as his dad. After Jerald graduated, it never crossed his mind to do anything else.
Sometimes, Aunt Gertie walked through the cemetery with him, and when they talked about his mom she would tell him that Susanne had also been an artist. Gertie never would have told him that if she had known what Jerald would do next. On his eighteenth birthday, he went back to the old club. Jerald wanted to see what the mannequins in the torn outfits did in the back rooms.
A big black man named Jude guarded the hall leading to the mysterious area. Jerald was surprised at how much he had to pay him just to be put on a waiting list. Jude told him to sit at a table, and he would tell him when it was his turn.
Jerald’s eyes widened when he watched the fully covered mannequins approach at the bar. The men would hand the woman money that she tucked into a small rubber pocket on her hip. His eyes followed them being led over to tables, where their hands were curled around drinking glasses and they stood silently immobile. Jerald’s eyes narrowed when some of the men ran their hands over their chosen mannequin’s thighs and bottoms. One man even stood to cup two pointed breasts. The woman never moved or made a sound, and her eyes focused through the thick smoke on some distant dream on a far wall.
Jude watched his new customer’s initiation to the club and he smiled, shaking his head. It was unusual for such a young man to request room five, and he decided that maybe it was all the kid could afford. It was over an hour before he walked up to Jerald. “You get fifteen minutes.”
Jerald walked down the dark corridor, passing doors until he reached room number five. His hand was sweating when he turned the knob, and he glanced down the dimly lit hall and saw the flashing white of the big black man’s teeth while he nodded slightly and smiled at him. Jerald took his look as a challenge, and he walked in and closed the door behind him. There was a woman in a familiar shiny black latex suit, five feet in front of him and lying on her side on a stage lit in muted blue light. Jerald licked his lips nervously and walked slowly up to her. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen… next to his mom and Aunt Gertie.
Her breasts were jutting out from holes in the suit, and with her one leg bent and raised he could see the naked lips of her pussy. They were spread a little, and the pink wrinkles inside looked wet and shiny. Holy shit. His blue eyes widened in awed fear, and he trembled when he crept closer. Holy shit. Completely mesmerized by the scene before him, his quivering fingers reached out and touched a protruding breast. Other than her nipple stiffening, she never moved. Jerald felt his pecker getting hard and pressing against the zipper of his jeans. Holy shit. “Am… am I allowed to…,” he sure as hell did not need problems with the bouncer. The silent woman pointed to a sign on the wall.
‘Mannequins expect to be tipped proportionately to the act you wish them to portray. Room Five Prices: Upper body configurations are forty dollars, facial configurations are sixty, and lower body configurations are eighty. Mannequins will remain fixed in the position you place them in.’
“What the fuck does that mean?” Jerald whispered. Frowning, he looked back at the woman.
She smiled, and Jerald wondered if it had just cost him sixty dollars. He had only brought one hundred with him, and he had already handed the bouncer fifty. She held up two fingers and he looked at the chart. Okay, I touched her boob, so I guess that’s forty bucks. He licked his lips nervously, pulled two twenties out of his pocket, and held the money up for her to see before he tucked it into the slot in the box below the sign.
The woman shook her head a little and she rolled onto her back, arching slightly so that her breasts were aimed at the ceiling. He reached out again and before he touched her, he leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Does it cost me forty bucks each time I touch them?” His poor pecker was throbbing and felt ready to explode, and the creamy globe in front of him had his fingers twitching with the need to feel the pillowed flesh again.
The woman whispered back, “Honey, I’m not supposed to talk. You paid to slide your cock between my tits. A blowjob is sixty, and pussy is eighty.”
“Oh… holy shit. If I… but, I might…” Jerald stuttered. His pecker was already leaking and pulsing.
“I hope to god you do, sweetie. You’ve only got about ten minutes left. Now, put me in whatever position you want me to stay in,” she whispered.
Jerald unzipped his pants. He doubted that he would even get his throbbing rod between her tits before he shot his load. His balls felt like they weighed about five pounds apiece and they were aching. He finally settled on laying her flat and straddling her, bu
t her arm was bent at a funny angle. With his cock lying between her breasts, he pushed her hand against the side of her boob. She kept it there, crushed against him. Holy shit. Jerald grabbed her other hand and pressed it against the other breast, trapping his swollen organ in the crevice between them.
It was heaven. His youthful stud cock was cradled in the soft flesh, pre-cum already leaking to lubricate his slide. It was way better than using his hand, and he leaned forward so his palms rested on the platform by her ears. He kept his arms straight and grinned at his pecker emerging from the valley between her breasts and then disappearing in her warmth. He began a slow rocking that built to a frantic thrust into the soft flesh.
Holy shit. “Aaargh,” he groaned. Sticky hot cum spurted out from his cock, easing and relieving the pressure on his balls. While he hung over her and panted, Jerald felt something liquid and warm on his withering cock. He looked down and saw the woman’s tongue lapping and cleaning him, and when he tried to pull back in panic, the hands crushing her breasts kept him trapped. “I don’t have sixty bucks,” he whispered in frantic response.
“It’s on the house, kid. Now that you know the deal, come back and see me. Remember, room number five. The prices are lower.”
Jerald looked closer at the woman. The smoky blue lights muted sins, but he saw the telltale signs of slight aging. She was still beautiful, and his heart cramped for a moment when he thought about his mother. He realized that this woman also had one foot in the ally. “I’ll be back,” he whispered.
Her name was Teresa, and she was thirty-five. Jerald discovered how erotic and beautiful this art of frozen positioning could be, and he became obsessed with posing her. The mannequin remained silently pliable, and she reminded him of three-dimensional erotic etchings in the marble and granite he worked with.
Jude always gave the kid a few extra minutes, because for whatever reason, the young man insisted on catering to the less popular older girls. Sometimes they pushed their time, and he would have to knock on the door to remind the boy he owed extra for going over. “Oops,” Jerald whispered, and Teresa would giggle. The kid made her feel young and desirable, and the time with him offset the hours she spent with drunken old derelicts that did not want to waste money on the better rooms.
They broke the rule of silence, while Teresa whispered positions and acts for Jerald to try. He relaxed his insecurity and allowed her to tutor him in sexual pleasures he had never known existed. The first time he slipped his cock into her mouth he was overwhelmed with the sensation. Closing his eyes, he thrust further, deeper until he felt her begin to gag, gripping the sides of her rubber mask until he exploded in a burning rush. Teresa slowed him down the next time, slightly concerned when he lost control. She taught him how her sucking and tongue could arouse him and help the enjoyment last longer.
As if the liquid warmth of her stroking tongue were not enough, Jerald felt a piece of him fly when he plunged into her pussy. The heated juices and gripping muscles were unbelievable, and he was certain that her glove was built specifically for his cock. It had to be, for the sensation to feel so wonderful.
One night, after six months, Jerald showed up and Teresa was gone. She had both feet in the ally and she had been replaced by Sabrina, a black beauty who was thirty-two. She would not tell him where Teresa had gone, but she whispered that his friend would be all right. She had told Sabrina about Jerald and his commitment to the women in Room Five. Sabrina decided to encourage his loyalty, and she continued his education in darker erotic sex that opened the ominously twisted door in his mind further.
Sabrina liked an edge of pain to enhance her experiences, and she liked to have her fat nipples pinched and bitten. She liked to be fucked in the ass, and while her wide bottom wiggled, anticipating his invasion, Jerald wondered how the voluptuous globes squeezed into the latex. The first time he entered her forbidden hole, her tight sphincter gripped him, forcing him to push his hard muscle into her depths. Jerald was afraid he would tear her, and he wondered why she had even whispered for him to do such a thing. His hands gripped her rubber hips and he found himself once more forgetting the mannequin. He thrust his sexual release into her muscular channel, enjoying the feeling of power from her submission.
Sabrina remained motionless when Jerald tortured her, except for her glistening pussy clenching in frantic need. Before the young man left the room, Jerald placed her on her back, spreading her naked chocolate colored pussy lips wide and licking the musky juices of her slit until she quivered. He rarely allowed her climax, maliciously leaving her panting and gasping, begging with her brown eyes smiling from the slits in the mask and glazed with her desire for him.
The ebony goddess lasted almost two years, and during that time Sabrina had taught Jerald more than positioning. He discovered that he needed the powerful feeling of his ability to torment the frozen women with delicious arousing tortures they both learned to crave.
By the time he was twenty-three, the only sex Jerald had ever had was with the latex mannequins in room number five. When his aunt found out she did not seem surprised, but she did want to know why he did not try a different room. “They’re younger towards the front, Jerald.”
“Younger? You mean like that bitch that shot mom? She wanted room number one so that you and mom would be pushed into the ally, and then she was going to steal mom’s boyfriend. I wish she’d succeeded.” At least mom wouldn’t have been killed by the jealous whore.
“Oh shit. I’m sorry, Jerald. I see what you mean.” It always made Gertie uncomfortable when she thought about the connection between Susanne’s death and the club.
“Besides, mom appreciates me catering to the number Fives,” Jerald defended with an off-handed remark.
Gertie frowned at him. Okay, that’s just weird. “Um, I guess you’re right. I mean, young guys don’t usually hit that room unless they’re broke.” Shit. She focused on her plate.
If Gertie had searched his eyes, she might have noticed the extra little intense gleam. It was the telltale glint and a sign of Jerald’s very disturbed mind. With all of his time spent in the cemetery or at the fetish club, the crevice that was splitting reality with jealous rage and the need for retribution had widened over the years.
Jerry pointed his fork at his son, a piece of meat stabbed through the tines. “You know, you could try going after a girl who actually moves,” he chuckled. “Maybe let them enjoy things, too? There are two sides to the act.”
“I know,” Jerald replied defiantly. “You should see ’em try to stay still when I fiddle with them.” If anything, Jerald wished they did not move as much as they did. The headstones outside remained fixed and never altered his work.
Gertie got damp and Jerry was as hard as a rock while they envisioned Jerald’s scenario. They looked at each other in silent agreement. They could not wait for the kid to take off to the club so they could hit the back bedroom.
Jerald looked up from his dinner and he burst out laughing. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Gertie blushed for the first time in years. “You know?”
He turned to his father. “Just don’t have a heart attack or something. I figure that after all those years having to hold still, Aunt Gertie has some pent up stuff to get rid of,” Jerald reasoned seriously. The couple laughed, and Jerald’s narrowed eyes fixed on them. What’s so funny? He had seen the passion in the mannequin’s eyes when he purposely left them aroused. Jerald thought it was the ultimate torture.
Gertie moved into Jerry’s room and Jerald continued to fine tune his work with the women in room number five. For the past two years, his dad had let him design a majority of the headstones. Jerry thought his son had a uniquely artistic expert flair, though he was a little bit obsessive.
Every evening at sunset, before Jerald left for the club, he visited his mother’s grave and he laid fresh flowers on the grass. His blue eyes stared at the marble while his finger followed the etched words. “I’m almost ready, mom. I’m almost ready to
make the girls in rooms one through four pay, and they won’t be able to hurt you any more. I stayed in room number five, just like I told you I would. They never have one foot in the ally with me, mom. Fuckin’ Stevie didn’t even recognize me. Weird, huh? The bouncer asked me what I do for a living, and I told him I’m a gravedigger. Jude must have told everyone else, because they all call me Tombstone now.”
Jerald Fry had remained a young man, as much a ghost as his mother. He had slipped away so slowly that Gertie and Jerry had not noticed until it was far too late. There was very little of Susanne’s sweet little boy left in the man he had become, and when left, it was Tombstone who had settled in the east.
CHAPTER I
Tombstone studied the woman standing next to his client, and he realized that she was taller than he had expected. Her unguarded expression was meant to look cool, but even from the distance, he could see the wary, nervous irritation in her dark eyes. The black knit creation she was wearing stretched over her voluminous breasts, curved to her waist, and then blossomed over generous hips.
A few times she shifted her weight from one black stilettoed heel to the other, drawing his attention to her legs. The seam in her black nylons outlined the curve in her calves and thighs, begging to be followed under the short hem of her skirt and over her rounded bottom. Claudine was the complete package, and so accustomed to displaying herself as such it never entered her mind just how shockingly inappropriately she was dressed for this occasion.
Tombstone leaned against his small backhoe, crossing his long legs and studying the crowd of mourners surrounding the casket. He glanced at the marker resting in the rusted bucket and let his leather gloved finger trace along the grooves of the etched lettering. This had been a rush job, as all of those that catered to his specialty were.
Tombstone Page 2
