Jake laughed. “Get up, or I’ll fuck you again. We can go at it after the party. I’ll swing from the fucking ceiling with a banana up my arse if you want. Now we’ve my party to attend.” He washed his cock and started to dress.
“Okay, Jake. You know I can’t get enough of your sexy hairy body. I love your fur all around me with your cock in me. It makes me feel like a warm egg in a nest.”
Jake felt good. In his prime, Olive, half his age, had been with him for ten years. She never seemed to tire of him. Although he fucked other women, she was always there for him. Life had been kind to him. He considered himself a lucky bastard. Okay, on the way up he’d stepped on a few bodies. It’s all part of the game. If I’d given them the chance, they would have trod on me too. If people block my path, I must get rid of them. Sometimes he removed them for good. Welland Taggart, one who wouldn’t move, annoyed him. When angry, he always reverted to his American gangster slang and his alter ego Big Al came to the fore. He said aloud. “The goddamn cock-sucking son of a bitch is going to get it with a baseball bat if he doesn’t move out!”
“Don’t upset yourself, Jake, it’s your birthday. Come to Momma. Let me stroke your fur and things. Who’s pissed you off?”
“Taggart the bastard! The big shit won’t lie down. Now he has a goddamn broad helping him torpedo my boys. She did for Jason and his hard men as though they were still in kiddie school. I might have to import a Pro-torpedo from Stateside. Or stick Helga onto him.”
“If that’s what it takes. Please, not tonight Jake. Tonight, is our night baby, let’s enjoy it.”
“You’re right Olive. Goddamn him to hell!” Jake set his tie and ran his big hairy hands over his broadcloth suit. Not forgetting the replica revolver snug under his hairy armpit. He patted both his bulges, picked a thick black pubic hair from his lapel, and turned towards Olive. In his best Chicago accent, he said. “How do I look baby? Like a million bucks or what?” The smile back on his face. “You’re right Baby; I’m not going to let the big shit spoil our night.”
Olive smiled up at him. “Whatever you’ve done Jake you’ve always been good to me.” She knew he loved her. If she had the most important piece of him whenever she wanted it, she was happy. He was fun to be with thinking he was Big Al Capone. His eccentricity was what she loved about him. Like a big hairy kid and easy to love if you didn’t cross him. “I love you Jakey for who you are. My big hairy gorilla who thinks he’s Al Capone, your big hungry cock, and your party animal ways. I’ll always love you no matter what. Sweetheart, you look great to me.”
“Okay Baby get dressed and let’s not keep the guests waiting. You’re a notorious gangster’s moll tonight, so act like one. I want the long pearl necklace I gave you around your beautiful black neck tonight.”
“Why don’t you give me another pearl necklace now Jakey? We have time.”
“You’ve emptied my tanks sweetheart. Wear the one in the box for now, and I’ll give you a big one later.” Taggart could be at the party tonight with two guests. One could be the hard case broad who sorted my heavies. I would like to meet her, he smiled to himself. From there we can go on big time. “I promise Olive.”
Jake saw himself as the last of the Cockney hard men. Born and bred in London’s East End, he had lived there all his life. Jake knew the area, which surrounded the docks as he did his cock. Jake had taken over from his dad when he’d died in suspicious circumstances. And started to build his own stable of fillies and stallions, as he liked to call them. Now he had more than a hundred escorts of every sexuality working for him. A nightclub, and a long list of happy clients, who came from across the board. Also, a concession in the drugs trade, a white slave racket, and a few tame police officers. All peppered with a couple of tame politicians. With their sprinkling of lobbyists, hanger-on’s, and arse lickers. All centred on 'Jake's Place', his nightclub headquarters. From there he coordinated his growing empire. The mainstays of which were his psychotic board of directors.
Jake’s nightclub gave him ready access to the merchant fleets of the world. It was in Amanda’s ships he imported his drugs and sold his slaves. When he wanted to expand. He had taken in new partners and in Big Al’s words. ‘Rubbed others out.’ Partners, with up and running businesses like the attractive Amanda Stevens. Whose ships exported her drugged light-skinned young men and women. From all over Europe to the Middle Eastern and African harems for a massive profit. Like Tanaka Yamoto. The snake-like Japanese Samurai. Whose restaurants and Japanese bathhouse brothels, lent a touch of Oriental Style Roman orgies to his enterprise? Like Helga Larsen with her lucrative health farm out of town, and her other hidden talents. Like Tranny Spinks, who owned two ‘Rainbow’ underground health complexes in Soho. Plus, two massage parlours, which catered to the homosexual and bisexual trade? Then there was Joe the Stallion Mallion, who owned half Jake’s nightclub. Joe was useful because of his contacts in Australia, the States, and Asia. Jake had chosen his partners with great care because they all had specialist talents. Except for Tranny Spinks. Anyone of them could, if given the right circumstances. Make Welland Taggart and his hard-case woman friend disappear. Welland Taggart and Tanis Napier were dangerous thorns in his side, thorns he must remove. I’ll talk to Helga tonight.
****
Joe, the Stallion Mallion, liked to think of himself as second in command to Jake. He also gazed at his image in his mirror. What hung between Joe’s muscular thighs was the cause of his nickname. When aroused, the fountain of intense pleasure in his female sex slaves. Rumour had it Joe had been using a vacuum pump for years to grow his sizable dong. Yet, the rumour was wrong. Joe had inherited it from his sex maniac dad. Who in his turn. Had inherited his from his sex-starved Afghan camel-driver great grandfather? Who used to ply his trade in the Northern Territories of Australia? In the early part of the twentieth century?
Joe smiled at the memory of his randy grandfather. Fucking his way around the Australian shearing shed with his randy father in the old days when he was a nipper. Some of the Sheilas looked like bush ponies with faces like walnuts, his father had said. Even so, his dad’s philosophy was. ‘Put a bag over their heads son. What’s between their legs always looks the same.’ His dad’s philosophy had not set with him though. He liked good sorts. The bets he and his dad had won from the boys in the bush town watering holes. About whose dong was the biggest, when Joe became a man. Were now pleasant memories and part of Australian bush legend.
Joe going on fifty. Still treasured the memories of his wayward youth. Joe’s dad had been at his bedside when he was born. When his dad’s eyes had focused on his boy’s dong, he’d said. ‘Struth Maisie! Not another one!’ When the midwife turned to him and said. ‘Mr. Mallion you’re the father of a beautiful bouncy boy. You should be proud of him.’ His proud dad commented. ‘Thanks a bunch, Nursie, I’m not blind. I can see what he’s fucking got.’ He’d watched as the midwife tucked his bouncy boy into his swaddling blanket. Mesmerised, the Nurse had taken her time about it too his dad said. Joe’s hand dropped to weigh his jewels, and he smiled.
Joe remembered the day when he and his younger sister Maisie were comparing notes behind the woodshed in their early teens. Maisie had shown Joe her horse-collar cunt, and Joe had rolled out his ‘Brutus’. The only words Joe could come up with was, ‘Struth Maisie, what a whopper’! The only words Maisie could come up with. When she saw his monster cock was. “Oh My God Joe! It’s bigger than dad’s dong.” Joe wondered how Maisie knew that. But, let it pass. He thought. Maisie’s still at Kings Cross. Making a fortune from her horse-collar cunt. She’d have made more in the South American nightclubs with the donkeys and a big coke bottle. They were never close Maisie and him. She had never forgiven him for trying to get into her pants behind the woodshed. One big prick. Must have been enough for her the randy bitch.
Joe was so proud of his dong he had christened it Brutus in the church font when the preacher had gone to Sydney’s King’s Cross for a dirty weekend. Jake’s partner
for a year now, Joe was as different in physique from Jake as a man could get. He was tall, broad, and handsome, with a mean glint in his evil dark eyes. Made more so by the curtain of long black hair. Which he’d inherited from his Italian great-grandmother. His paternal great-grandfather. His enemies said, and they were right, had married a defrocked bisexual nun from Genoa. Who’d disgraced herself with the altar wine and the father of her convent over the chapel pews? Caught naked and in flagellant breach of convent rules. With the good Father, up her and the Mother Superior laying into her buns with the ropes of her cassock. The wicked three said at their trial in their defence. They were purging his great-grandmother from her sinful ways. At their church trial, all found guilty, defrocked, then sent packing.
In disgrace, Joe’s great-grandmother had immigrated to Australia. Where she had met her husband in a Darwin brothel when he’d come into town for a night out with the boys. His great-grandmother had screamed all night keeping the other guests awake. Then satisfied in the extreme, the next morning. She had married his great-grandfather within the hour. They then enjoyed a brief strenuous honeymoon over her bed-end to celebrate. After which, she’d joined him in the bush with his camels. Joe didn’t care what his enemies said about his family. He was as much proud of his notorious forebears as he was of his inherited dong. Thanks, great grandpa.
Joe had left Australia in the late nineties one jump ahead of the law. And two leaps ahead of his associates. Whom, in his own words... ‘The bastards made a bloody drama out of nothing. They wanted to part my balls from my body with a rusty knife and a blunt pair of pliers.’ He had owned a small nightclub, two massage parlours, and a small brothel in the Sydney Kings Cross area and resented having to give them up. Having the right credentials and being almost; but, not quite as hard as Jake. Although considered crueller, he’d bought into Jake’s nightclub.
They made a formidable pair. Joe arriving with a large bankroll in his pocket had qualified him as Jake’s junior partner. He was willing to invest all, which made Jake like him. He was a good backstop in a fight and loyal to his friends. Anyone who crossed him ended up minus a few digits whether fingers, toes, or cocks it mattered little to Joe. They all came off with a pair of long-handled tree pruners. Most of his victims just disappeared. Joe thought of himself as a right Aussie bastard in every sense of the word and was proud of it. Still, in his prime, his sexual preferences revolved around women who liked pain with their sex, and plenty of it. He considered himself just the lad to give it to them. He glanced in the mirror at the young woman who lay on the bed behind him and smiled.
She lay on her stomach, soft groans coming from her small bruised mouth. “You’re a good fuck, Joe. Even so, you went over the top this time with that fucking whip of yours and that third leg you call a cock, you bastard. I won’t heal up for weeks.”
“That’s the general idea, Faye. If you don’t like my brand of rooting, fuck off. There are plenty more Sheilas like you around. In fact, I have five like you on a rotating roster. I could do with a couple more though. So, if you know of anyone else who likes pain, it would go easier on you next time. You would look forward to it when it’s your turn again. Think about it, you fucking bitch.”
“I do like it, Joe, which is the point. But, do you have to come down so hard with the whip and that club you call ‘Brutus’? I only have a small mouth, my throat’s not a deep throat either, your monster dong is too big for it.”
“Tough.” He added with cruel intent. “Your mouth’s not the only thing which is small. Thank fuck you have a big set of buns with an arse to match. I come down on you no harder than my sainted mother came down on me Faye and her sainted mother on her. Read my lips. If you don’t like what I do to you, don’t come back.” With a little menace, he added. “But, get someone else to replace you first, or I’ll come down on you harder the next time I see you, you fucking moll.”
Faye liked the way Joe spoke to her but would never admit to it. “You’re a right Aussie bastard, Joe. After you've whipped me into submission. Where else can I get a good ream out with a dong like yours? Okay. I’ll try to bring in a couple more slaves. As you say, it will make the load a little easier to bear. Not too easy mind you, you big prick.”
Joe laughed, “That’s better Faye. What I like about you, you care about your friends, and you know what’s good for you. My Brutus is good for you, and my whip is good for you. Now get the fuck out and let me get ready. I have a party to go to and another sex slave to buy.”
“Okay, I’m going, Joe… I’ll see you in a month then?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Get two more slaves, make it every six weeks. You’ll be ripe for another flog-fuck from Brutus then. The next time I’m going to flay you for your cheek Faye. You make sure the Sheilas don’t look like bloody wombats or bush ponies. The money is on the dresser, you old bag.”
Trying not to show her pain Faye exited the room and left Joe to his dress thinking, Jesus! When the bastard fucks you, he wants his money’s worth. Yet, he knows how to dish out the pain with his enormous dong and his whip. His mother and grandmother must have been some pieces of work. I’ll be back for more, and the Aussie bastard knows it. His last promise to lay it on harder will see to that. Before she slammed the door behind her to anger him, she shouted. “I’ll see you in six weeks Joe, you three-legged prick. Jake the Fake’s got nothing on you.”
Joe laughed. “Don’t bother if you can’t get two more slaves you fucking whore.” He shook his head, smiled, and continued dressing. He liked his slanging matches with his favourite slave Faye. She’ll be back, and when she does. I’ll make her suffer.
Joe, like Jake, was eccentric. In his fantasy life, Joe thought of himself as a real slave master; yet, a slave master with a difference. Joe liked to inflict pain on women who enjoyed pain with their fucking. He could never understand their deviance. Even so, who was he to argue when women sought him out for his unique brand of impalement? He could appreciate himself though. His whore grandmother and mother had seen to that…the fucking bitches. I like dishing it out to women. Because I took it from women in the first place. He was not whipping them; he was punishing his grandmother and mother…and my fucking sister. Sometimes he wished he could tell his slaves that. But it would spoil the drama and his enjoyment. His slaves came to him for their pleasure, not his personal grievances. I mustn’t be selfish.
Joe laughed. His preference was to punish them, then impale them with Brutus. They liked what he dished out. If they performed well. He gave them another impaling in their arses as a Brutus bonus, and as an incentive to return. They worked hard for their extra crumbs. I wish some had bigger mouths, cunts, and bums though. Deeper throats too.
Tonight, he would dress the part and play on his slave’s secret fantasies. Fantasies he’d teased out of them bit by painful bit over the years. It had all cumulated in the dress and mannerisms of a cruel eighteenth-century New Orleans Creole plantation owner. Who with his dark good looks, his costume, his bullwhip, and what he had in his stretchy pants. Could make his slaves’ secret dreams blossom into reality. He was, without a doubt. The tall, dark, handsome stranger. His Sheilas thought about when they beat their clits in their secret hideaways. While waiting their turn for his unique brand of impalement. His Brutus, the icing on their pain topped cake, always sent them over their radical edge. Especially, when he first rolled his boy out of his trousers. Joe glanced at his image in his full-length mirror. His perfect teeth flashed a grin at his reflection. Some lucky Sheila’s in for it tonight or my name’s not Joe Mallion. The fucking Aussie bush stallion. He roared with laughter and began to beat his freaky Bishop with both his hands.
Dressed and standing tall. Joe’s dark features, bull neck, and exposed chest-hair. Contrasted well with the pure white silk of his frilled open neck shirt and tight fancy waistcoat. He looked every inch of what his fantasy-primed slaves wanted him to be. His sturdy legs sported tight light cream riding breeches laced below the knee. Belted with a wide lea
ther belt, tucked into polished leather riding boots. The latter topped with light tan cuffs? His stretchy pants left nothing of his bulge to the imagination. Across his flat stomach, fobbed with a long golden horn of plenty, he had looped a heavy gold watch chain. Which ran from pocket to pocket of his fancy waistcoat. Over this. He wore the open black broadcloth frock coat of an early nineteenth century Mississippi gambler. Made to his particular order in Paris. On his head, a light cream-coloured wide-brimmed low-crowned Stetson completed the picture.
Joe arranged his long black hair with care over his broad shoulders. Glanced once more at his massive bulge. Then strode towards the door. Holy Shit Joe! What a fucking handsome, well-hung Aussi bastard you are. On the way out, he picked up a beautiful plaited leather bullwhip from the sideboard. It won’t hurt to have an added incentive. He knew, to be successful with individual women, you had to show them what they wanted and what you could offer. You must cater to their secret dreams and dark desires with visible props. Only I can give them what they crave. When I see their eyes on my Brutus bulge, there can be only one conclusion to their secret dreams. Their screams. He knew he was a walking advert to any potential slaves out there.
Two men had tried to get in on Joe’s act once. He’d left them bruised and bleeding. Behind the club with their balls kicked in and their pinkies lopped off with his cigar cutter. Lucky, it wasn’t their dicks, the bastards. The word soon spread. Joe, the Stallion Mallion, was a ladies’ man. But only if they could handle physical abuse. Then fucked three ways to 'Sundown' by the biggest dong in the business. Tonight, Joe would celebrate Jake’s birthday by adding a new slave to his fucking list. He laughed, his contempt of the fairer sex plain on his face. I hope it’s the Sheila from Taggart’s nightclub.
The Willing Prey Page 26
