Forced bdsm story
Fire is often said to be the one single discovery which led man to rise above the beasts and enabled him to distinguish himself as a ruler of the earth. But to a man standing on the sidewalk in his pajamas and watching a holocaust of orange flame destroying his home and with it everything that he spent his life accumulating, fire is a damnation -- an evil invented by the devil for his persecution.
And so it is with all the wonders of life on our planet. The rains which make our crops grow also make the rivers swell occasionally, drowning us without regard to our age, wealth or station in life. The electricity which powers our factories breaks loose sometimes, blackening the bodies of the unwary and terminating their stay on earth. Each and, every force which makes life possible is capable of destroying it as well.
In order to protect ourselves from the dangers that result from the abuse or excess of one of life's natural forces, we must educate ourselves and our children in their use. What would happen if the man who watched his house burn down reacted by teaching his children that fire was evil and that they should not only never play with matches, but also that they should never use them, look at a flame, or even think about fire? The result, of course, would be disastrous. For, since no one in contemporary human society can isolate himself from fire, they would inevitably come into contact with it at some point in their lives. And without the understanding that can only come with informed contemplation, they would have no means of protecting themselves against its dangers.
This is a story about a woman who grew up with an unreasoning and unreasonable fear of another of life's vital forces -- the force of sex. Because her mother bad suffered the consequences of its abuse, she had been taught to eschew all sexual contact and to resist all sexual thought. The result, of course, is catastrophic.
Connie Dresden is a lady cop -- a woman who was devoting her life to the fight against the forces of evil and corruption. But because of her repressed upbringing, she's ill-equipped to deal with these forces. She's like a hunter who shoots at the first boar that he has ever seen. Because he has never had the opportunity to study or to contemplate the enemy, he empties his gun at the thick bony armor which protects the creature's, skull, never realizing that its only vulnerable spot is between its front legs. Then, his weapon useless and empty, his is torn to shreds by the boar.
Since sex has always been an unknown quantity to Connie, she's not prepared for it when she faces it for the first time -- an encounter which was inevitable. Again and again she's attacked by the little-understood enemy, each attack adding to her knowledge of its nature. But by the time she has acquired enough knowledge to fight intelligently, it's too late, for she has been destroyed.
The author's message is only too clear: that fear and ignorance lead to weakness. They propagate and foster the very evils from which they run. They corrupt as surely as corruption itself, honorable intentions a poor substitute for knowledge and understanding. And Connie Dresden stands as a symbol of the fear and ignorance which leads each of us to turn his back on the things that he should study most.
Johnny Walker, the Black gang leader, is also a symbol -- representing the mysterious evil in which each of us shrouds the things that he fears most. And just as Connie's encounter with Johnny and with sex, the nemesis of her life, is inevitable, so, too, must each of us face that from which he would prefer to run. And whether the encounter destroys us, tearing our bodies to pieces like a wild boar on a rampage, or it broadens us because we have learned to rise above it, will always be seen to depend on how hard we have worked at learning to understand ourselves and the forces which oppose us.
And a reader who takes a lesson from Connie Dresden's mistakes, and from those of her mother, has already taken a long step toward that understanding.
The Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
Shari reached behind her and undid the clasp of her lacy bra. She shrugged her shoulders and lit the wispy white garment slide down the length of her arms, freeing her breasts from the confinement of its tightly constricting cups. Then she dropped the bra to the floor and shook her shoulders, letting her breasts sway from side to side.
Although she was thin, Sheri's tits were big enough to fill the cups of her size thirty-six-C bra. She ran her hands over them lightly, feeling her silver-dollar-size pink nipples begin to pucker and harden. She held them in her fingers for a moment, turning them back and forth like the knobs of a radio. Then she drooped her hands to the waistband of her black pantyhose. Hooking her thumbs under the elastic she began tugging them downward slowly and deliberately.
The john was lying on the bed watching her undress. He hadn't said a word since picking her up in the street and had stripped in silence as soon as they got into the room. Sheri could see his cock hardening as he let his gaze travel up and down the length of her near-naked body. With one hand he was idly stroking himself.
After Sheri had lowered the pantyhose over her hips she stepped closer to the bed and stopped swaying her body sensuously. The john could see a few wisps of curling pubic hair poking out over the lowered waistband. He held his breath, waiting for her to pull it down all the way. He looked up at her face and saw that she was licking her lips.
"Like what you see?" she asked.
"Haven't seen enough," he responded. His voice was raspy and strident, as though he was trying to cover his nervousness.
Sheri could see that she was turning him on. She liked to turn men on. It was one of the few things about her life that gave her any satisfaction at all. Every time a man gave her money, it was proof that he wanted her. And having men want her was all that she had left.
She tugged the pantyhose down a little further, exposing her tangled bush of pubic hair. It was black, contrasting sharply with the platinum blonde wig that she wore. The john drew his breath in sharply at the sight of her naked crotch area. "I didn't think you were a natural blonde," he said.
Sheri just laughed.
"How about that birth mark on your chin?" he asked. "Is that natural?"
Sheri laughed again. "No," she giggled. "I put it in with pencil. It's star-shaped. Do you like it?"
But the john wasn't paying any attention to her words. He was staring at her lewdly displayed pussy and licking his lips. She suddenly remembered that time was money and stepped quickly out of the pantyhose, leaving them in a nylon puddle on the floor. She ran one of her hands obscenely up and down her exposed cuntal lips as she approached the bed.
"Now, what would you like?" she asked in a soft voice.
"Everything that my ten bucks buy me," he answered.
Sheri sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the rough woolen blanket scratching at the soft skin of her ass. Damn cheap hotel, she thought. With all the business I give them you'd think they could afford better blankets. I must rent this fuckin' room ten times a day.
She looked quickly around at the cubicle in which she spent so much of her time. The room was small, not much bigger than the sagging double bed which occupied most of the floor space. Next to the bed was a nightstand with an ashtray and an old lamp with yellowed shade. The ashtray was full of butts, some of them lipsticked.
Against the far wall was a club chair that looked like it was left over from before the flood. Its upholstery was threadbare in several places and the outline of a spring could be seen poking against the material of the cushion. The management of the Eighth Avenue Manhattan Hotel knew why its rooms were so popular. And they knew that their guests didn't rent them for sitting in.
The walls were cracked, and the paint was peeling. The ceiling was crisscrossed with a series of cracks and blisters that spelled out "shit" if you closed one eye and turned your head to the side. Shari ought to know. She spent enough time looking at it.
"Hey," the john said. "Quit dreamin' and give me my moneys worth, will you."
Sheri turned to look at him, an automatic hooker-smile coming to her lips as she did so. "Sorry, hon," she said. "Now what would you like?"
"Why don't you start with a blowjob," he said. Sheri flashed her fast, empty, hooker-smile again and bent over him. His cock was standing straight up from the tangled jungle of his matted, brown pubic hair. She could smell the aroma of the last cunt that he was in, mixed with the stale smell of his own sweat.
Probably been two weeks since his last bath, she thought.
Then, not allowing herself the luxury of further time wasted, she brought her lips lightly against the rubbery surface of his swollen purple cockhead. A glistening drop of dewy moisture oozed from the tightly drawn slit at the tip of his penis. Sheri snaked her tongue out and licked the pearly drop off with a quick flick of its warmly pink tip. She felt the john's hands groping for her tits and she turned her body to make it easier for him.
Whatever turned him on was all right with her. As long as she turned him fast. She had finished daydreaming, and now she was all business. The faster she could turn this trick, the faster she could get back onto the street for another. It was early and there was still time to make some real money if she stopped mooning around.
She opened her mouth, taking the throbbing purple bulb which capped his prick between her lips. She ran her tongue over it in a series of quick wet spiraling movements that made him gasp with pleasure. Then she lowered her head, taking the entire length of his quivering organ into the warmth of her oral cavity. She heard him moan softly and felt his fingers twisting her nipples frantically.
With one hand she cupped his balls and began massaging them slowly. With a little fancy finger work, she thought, maybe I can bring him off without even balling him. She felt her mouth filling with a mixture of her own warm saliva and his free-flowing lubricating fluid. She knew that it wouldn't be long before he popped his load down her throat. Another suck, another buck, she thought.
But suddenly the john arched his back, pressing his hips down into the spongy mattress as he pulled his prick from her dripping mouth. "In your cunt," he said. "I want to put it in your cunt."
Sheri shrugged mentally, disappointed by his sudden awakening, and stretched out on the bed beside him. "Top or bottom, lion?" she asked, her voice efficient and business-like.
"You get on top," he answered in a commanding fashion.
"Whatever you like, hon," she said. She rose to her hands and knees and straddled him, moving her cunt into position. She knew that she was dry and sore inside, but she hoped that his cock would be wet enough from the blowjob not to hurt too much when he entered her. One more trick and I can go get fixed, she thought. Then the rest of the day won't be so bad.
As she positioned herself over the john, she could feel her nipples grazing the hair of his chest. They were puckered to semi-erectness and raked at his muscular skin. She reached down between their bodies, feeling her soft round fits pressing against her arm as she took his stiff cock in her fingers. She guided its throbbing length toward the dry lips of her pussy, ready to lower herself onto him. Then, just as the quivering cockflesh made contact with her cunt, there was a noise in the hall. Sheri sprang from the bed, instinctively alert. She began scrambling for her clothes.
"Hey," stammered the john. "What the hell is going on?"
"Didn't you hear that noise?" she asked. "I think it's the cops. Get dressed. Hurry."
"What the hell are you talking about..." the john began. But his words were interrupted by a loud pounding on the door.
"Police officers," called a voice. "Open up."
Seconds later the door flew open and a man burst into the room, gun drawn. A badge was pinned to the breast pocket of his gray business suit. His jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a brown-leather shoulder holster hugging his armpit beneath it.
Sheri stood naked in the center of the room holding her pantyhose in her hand. Now that the cops were in the room there was no point in hurrying into her clothes. But the john already had his pants on and was reaching for his shirt.
"Finish getting dressed, mister," the cop said putting his gun back into its holster. "Then step outside, I want to have a talk with you." Then he turned to Sheri and stared for a long silent minute at her naked body. "You're under arrest, honey," he said. "Get your clothes on. Officer Dresden will stay with you until you're ready to go."
The cop stepped back to the open door and called, "Connie, come in here, please." A tall slender woman stepped into the doorway. She wore the blue skirt, white blouse, and blue tie that were the uniform of a New York City policewoman. "Stay with Lady Godiva until she's dressed," the male cop said. "Then we can get her downtown." He closed the door behind him as he stepped out. The john followed him a moment later, his open shoelaces trailing along behind him as he walked.
Officer Connie Dresden looked quickly at Sheri and then turned away, embarrassed by the prostitute's nakedness. From the pocket of her crisp white blouse she drew a small white card on which several paragraphs were neatly typed. She began to read it aloud.
"It is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest. You have the right to..." As Connie Dresden read the familiar phrases, her nervousness left her. It felt good to be doing, the job that she was trained for.
Sheri eased her still-naked body to a sitting position on the edge of the bed as the policewoman read her her rights. She paid no attention to the words. They had been read to her before. Many times. And they had been explained to her by the Legal Aid lawyers that the court had always appointed for her when she had been busted in the past. She knew the ropes. The john wouldn't testify and the case against her would have to be dismissed. She would be on the street again by the following morning.
The little clock in her head was already beginning to calculate how long it would be before she could get a fix. Tomorrow morning, she thought. It won't be too bad. I've held out longer than that before.
She took a long look at the policewoman who was still reciting her speech about constitutional rights in a mechanical monotone. Sheri had never seen this one before. She looked like anything but a cop. With those titties and with that ass, Sheri thought, she could be a hooker herself.
Connie Dresden was tall and slender but her breasts and her behind were full and round and made her look more like a bathing suit model than a police officer. Her hair was dark and pulled back severely into a tight bun at the back of her neck. But Sheri was sure, from the thickness of the bun, that when free it would hang to her mid-back. The dark hair framed her lightly freckled heart-shaped face, making it seem as white as flour, by comparison. Her almond-shaped eyes were bright green in color and sparkled with the hopeful idealism of youth. Although she was twenty-four, she didn't look more than eighteen or nineteen.
Still naked, Sheri rose from her sitting position on the bed and walked around Connie, looking at her from all sides like a butcher appraising a side of beef. "You know, you're not a bad-looking little piece of ass yourself," she said brazenly. "What's a good-looking chick like you doing in those fuzz duds?"
Connie's eyes tightened to slits and her lips trembled in anger. Who does this pig think she is, talking to me like that? she thought. She felt like slapping her, but restrained herself.
"Just get your clothes on," she said. "And keep your opinions to yourself. This is no game, this is an arrest. And I'm not your friend. I'm a cop. You're the criminal and I'm the cop. And I'm bringing you in to be sent to jail where people like you belong. Now get dressed."
She turned her face, averting her gaze from the sight of the naked prostitute who had begun to pull her pantyhose over her shapely legs. Connie fought to regain control over her emotions. At the Police Academy she had been warned repeatedly about letting a prisoner upset her. Lots of them try it, she had been told, hoping to provoke an incident which might lead to a charge of police brutality, thus becoming the basis for a deal. Well, this one won't be making any deals at my expense, she thought.
Connie had only been on the Police Force for a short time and this was her first "prost" bust. But she was conscientious and had read the Penal Law. Fifteen days was all that the girl would get, but maybe it would be enough, to turn her from a life of filth and degradation. And if fifteen days weren't enough to do the trick, there would be other arrests. And longer sentences.
If animals like this can't be rehabilitated, the policewoman thought, at least they can be put safely away in a place where they can't soil and corrupt others, Connie Dresden had lived in New York City all her life and knew about the scum and the vermin that infested the city and corrupted the people who lived in it.
She had studied the corruption in her police science classes at City College and she had learned how to fight it at the Police Academy. She had learned about the vices -- illicit gambling, illicit drugs and, worst of all, illicit sex -- that were the causes of most of the city's crime. She had been graduated from the Police Academy six months before, determined to do her share in fighting those vices.
So far, there hadn't been much of an opportunity to do anything more than tag along after the detectives and watch them wage war on the forces of evil. They usually brought her along whenever they were expecting to have female prisoners. Connie had done little more than search them and guard them after one of the detectives had made the arrest. But she hoped to become a detective herself. One day! Then she would really be in a position to fight crime and filth, to help rid the city of some of the scum which poisoned it.
Connie had grown up in a cramped and dirty apartment just a few blocks away. Although her old neighborhood lay in the shadow of Times Square, the busiest intersection in the world, she had spent much of her childhood watching the numbers runners, the dope pushers, and the whores conducting their foul business openly in the street. Connie had learned to hate them at an early age -- them and all that they stood for.
"Scum", her mother had called them. "The scum of the earth."
Connie's mother had become pregnant at the age of sixteen, having been dragged into an empty basement and raped by three of the neighborhood toughs. She had no way of knowing which of them was the father of her daughter and she didn't care. At the trial of her three rapists, the defense lawyer had convinced the jury, along with everybody else in the courtroom, that the sixteen-year-old girl had enticed the "youths" into the basement and seduced them.
When the jury brought in its verdict of "not guilty", Connie's mother had walked from the courtroom shamed and humiliated. When she told her parents, later that same day, that she was leaving to live by herself, they hadn't objected. If anything, they had been relieved. They had no desire to bear the shame of the sinful acts by which their daughter had defiled herself. They never knew their granddaughter.
Two months before Connie was born, her mother found a dingy little apartment on the corner of Forty-Third Street and Ninth Avenue. Ever since then it had been her private hell, punishment for the sin of her adolescence. And Connie she regarded as living proof of that sin.
Connie's indoctrination began as soon as she was old enough to understand. "All men are criminals," her mother had said bitterly. "Rutting beasts capable of no thought other than the satisfaction of their own perverted desires. But you can't blame them for this any more than you can blame a pig for eating garbage."
Connie understood. Men, weren't responsible for their depravity since, after all, it was their nature. Sex was filthy. Sex was perverted. But the sin never fell on the soul of a man. It was the woman who encouraged him and led him on. Connie's mother recognized her own guilt and made certain that her daughter, too, recognized it. She hoped that Connie would learn from her mistake and avoid repeating her sin.
"You must be on your guard at all times," her mother had warned. "It's going to be harder for you than it is for other girls your age. You are the daughter of sin, the product of a sinful union."
Connie tried, all her life, to make her parent proud of her, to show her that she would never fall into the pit of sin and, depravity which was her heritage. And, as her mother had predicted, it was harder for Connie than it was for the other girls. By the time she was twelve, her breasts had begun to develop and to push proudly against the fabric of the boy-cut shirts which she always wore in a vain attempt to hide them.
By the time that she was thirteen, boys had really started to notice her and her budding figure. They scuffled for a place near her on the lines at school and were always finding excuses to bump into her, mauling her tits with their elbows and even with their hands.
When she was fourteen, she began receiving invitations from older boys to everything from school dances to quiet weekends in the country. She was always swift and unhesitating in her refusals. Her knowing mother had taught her that even the most innocent hesitation could be misinterpreted by a boy and could lead to sin.
But in spite of her open hostility, the boys continued to ask her for dates, continued to brush against her in the auditorium and on line, and continued to whisper indecent proposals in her ears. Even grown men ogled her and looked for ways to peek into her blouse whenever she bent over. When they talked to her they looked for reasons to touch her, to put their hands on her shoulder or on her knee in a phony fatherly way.
Connie was always quick to shake off the overfriendly hands. Her mother bad taught her to avoid doing anything which might make a man think that he could have his way with her. "Once they get started," she had warned, "they're too strong to be stopped. And if you don't stop them, it isn't their fault."
Connie knew that there were plenty of girls who not only didn't try to stop the explorations of male bands, but who also actually encouraged their advances. And she was sure that these women were largely responsible for the decline in morality which characterized twentieth-century America. And that was why she had joined the Police Force -- to prove to herself, to her mother, and to the world that a woman could dedicate her life to fighting sin rather than fostering it.
***
If only my mother had lived long enough to see me in my uniform, she thought. That would have proved that she didn't have to worry about me. But her mother had died two years before, poisoned by her own bitterness.
Connie looked at Sheri, the blonde-wigged, star-birth marked prostitute, and an expression of contempt came over her face. The girl had pulled on her pantyhose and was zipping her skirt when she saw Connie looking at her. She detected the glint of hatred in the young policewoman's eyes and shuddered involuntarily. "I'm going as fast as I can," she said, anticipating Connie's command to hurry it up.
Sheri's breasts bobbed as she bent to retrieve her bra from the floor. She slipped it over her arms and stuffed her tits carefully into the cups. "Will you snap this for me, hon," she said, turning her back to Connie. "I usually get the johns to do it for me."
"Well, you'll just have to do it yourself this time," Connie said. "I'm not your maid. I'm a cop and you're a criminal. Remember that."
A shiver passed through Sheri's body as she reached behind her to snap her own bra. This bitch gives me the creeps, she thought. She acts like she doesn't have a cunt. She picked up her sweater and put it on quickly, anxious to be dressed and out of there. She had the feeling that the policewoman hated her enough to kill her and she couldn't imagine why. But it frightened her.
"All right," she said. "I'm ready."
Connie wondered for, a moment whether she was supposed to put the cuffs on the girl. She didn't seem dangerous, but Connie wasn't sure. Just then the door opened and the detective with whom she had come popped his head into the room. "Everything all right?" he asked.
"Sure," she answered. "But this one sure took her time getting dressed."
"Nobody's in a hurry to get to jail," he answered with a grin. "Let's go, kid."
Sheri walked to the door and Connie followed. When they got to the street, the detective opened the back door of the police car and assisted the young woman of ill fame into the back seat with an extravagant flourish of his arm. "Your coach, milady," he said.
Sex fiend, Connie thought. Without a word she walked to the passenger side of the police car and climbed into the front seat. She looked through the wire mesh which separated the front seat from the back and saw the detective hand the prostitute a cigarette and light it for her. Connie turned around to face front. Staring out the window, she rode in silence until the car pulled up in front of the precinct.
She led the prisoner from the car and was about to escort her to the squad room for booking when the desk sergeant spotted her. "Hey, Connie," he called. "Better let someone else take the prisoner. Lieutenant Blumenthal wants to see you."
"Me?" Connie asked, a faint look of worry coming to her face. "What does he want to see me about?"
The sergeant shrugged and grinned. "He forgot to tell me," he said.
Leaving her prisoner in the charge of another policewoman, Connie walked up the rickety stair-way which led to the lieutenant's office. She knocked on the frosted glass of his office door and opened it at his musical "come ee-un".
"You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?" she asked, her voice serious.
"Why, yes, Connie. Yes, I did," he said. Lieutenant Blumenthal smiled at her in a friendly fatherly way. He was a heavy set man of about forty-five with a ruddy face and a thick walrus moustache. Although his hair was gray, the moustache was a reddish brown. Connie thought that it gave him the appearance of a comic-book character. But she respected the lieutenant. He was the only man that she bad ever met who didn't seem to be thinking about sex all the time.
Connie sank into the soft-cushioned, overstuffed chair which faced the lieutenant's desk. He smiled again and said, "Understand you went out on a 'prost' bust today. How did you like it?"
"Like it?" she said incredulously. "How could anyone like something like that?" Then, calming herself by a deliberate act of will, she added, "But at least I can take some satisfaction in knowing that that vile creature will be off the street for fifteen days."
The lieutenant's face broke into a wide mirthful grin. "Fifteen days?" he said, echoing Connie's incredulity. "We'll be lucky if we can keep her fifteen hours."
"What do you mean?" she asked. "What about the Penal Law? It says Class-B misdemeanor. Fifteen days."
"Ah, yes, the Penal Law," Lieutenant Blumenthal said slowly. "Well, my dear, it may take you a while to learn this, but there's a big difference between the law and enforcing the law. Did you see her take any money?"
"No, of course not," Connie said, a bit shaken.
"And nobody else did, either. We haven't got a case." The lieutenant's sad expression told Connie that he was almost as displeased with the situation as she was. "But she's only a small fish, anyway," he continued. "If we tried to lock up every whore in New York City, there wouldn't be any room in the jails for the real criminals. And it's the real criminals that I want to talk to you about."
"What do you mean?" Connie asked, uncertain of why she had been sent for.
"Junk! Heroin! That's the real culprit," he said. "If we can't stop the drug traffic in this city well never be able to clean up the streets. Junk! It's everywhere. Have you heard about the rash of overdoses in Forest Hills?"
"Yes," she answered. "Two kids died in the last couple of weeks, I believe."
"Correction," said the lieutenant. "Three! The third one died this morning."
"But what does that have to do with us?" Connie asked. "Forest Hills isn't our precinct. It isn't even our borough. Forest Hills is where the rich folks live. We've got troubles enough down here."
"Troubles, yes," said the lieutenant with a smile. "But troubles enough? Never. You see, when some ghetto-dwelling junkie overdoses down here, not too many people give a damn. But when it happens to a couple of smart college kids up in Forest Hills, a lot of people start getting uncomfortable. And one of them is the mayor. It seems that his telephone has been busy all day. Quite a few of those influential Forest Hills folks want to know what he's doing about 'their' problem."
"Everybody's got problems, Lieutenant," Connie said, still not sure of what he was getting at.
"But Forest Hills is something special," he continued. "The dope pushers don't do business in the street up there like they do here in this neighborhood. And that makes them harder to find. That's where you come in Connie."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"The mayor has asked for my help," the lieutenant explained. "He needs an undercover agent to infiltrate the Forest Hills youth culture. Someone young and relatively unknown. Someone who has never worked Forest Hills or any of the neighborhoods around it. And most important of all, we need someone who doesn't look like a cop. Someone who'll be able to gain the confidence of the kids."
"And that's the hard part," he continued. "Finding someone who doesn't look like a cop. You see, most cops look like cops. I can't tell you what it is -- perhaps the facial expression, or the way we walk -- but there is something about a cop. Most of those kids can spot one a mile away. But you've only been on the force for six months, Connie. You haven't acquired that 'cop' look yet. You're still fresh and clean. You could be a schoolteacher, a college student, a nurse maybe. Anything but a cop."
"What do you want me to do, Lieutenant?" Connie asked. It sounded like he was about to give her an important assignment and she wanted to let him know how willing she was to undertake it. "It's an undercover assignment, Connie," the lieutenant said. "If you manage to pull it off I can almost guarantee your transfer to the detective squad. I know you'd like that."
"Like it?" Connie interjected. "Like it? Just tell me when I start and what I have to do?"
"It's pretty simple, really," the lieutenant said. "But there is some element of danger. You'll move to Forest Hills and pose as an art student. Do your best to work your way into the confidence of the young drug users. You'll find that most of them frequent a place called the Glass Onion. It's a kind of a discotheque, but they use it as a hangout and meeting place. Then I want you to buy some heroin."
"You want me to what?" Connie asked. Her eyes opened wide in surprise.
"You heard me," the lieutenant said. "Buy some heroin. It's a lot easier than you might think. Chances are that any of the kids that hang out at the Glass Onion can get you a fix. But that's not what we're after. We want the 'supplier'."
"You mean you want me to buy a large quantity of it?" she asked.
"It doesn't matter how much you buy," he answered. "The tiniest crumb is enough to get us an arrest warrant. Just make sure you buy it from someone who's in a position to sell a large quantity. Think you can handle it?"
"I'm sure of it," she answered. "And thanks for your confidence."
CHAPTER TWO
When Johnny Walker laughed, there was no mirth in the sound. To Johnny, laughter, like all other expressions of human emotion, was no more than a tool -- an instrument of deception -- to be used in the manipulation of people. While his soft, almost-hypnotic base voice might lull strangers into a false sense of security, those who knew Johnny knew him to be as cold and as hard as the knife that was his ever-present companion.
Johnny was lounging on the raised black platform in the center of his living room, dressed comfortably in green double knit slacks and a green-and-yellow smoking jacket. Around his neck was a white satin ascot, tied loosely and tucked into the front of the jacket. The stark whiteness of the material contrasted sharply with the coal black color of his skin.
Johnny laughed again, flashing two rows of shiny white teeth. One of the upper centrals was capped in gold, the white tooth enamel showing through a heart-shaped cutout in the center of the cap. Gloria stared at it in fascination as Johnny's upper lip curled back to let the laugh out.
Gloria was on her knees in front of the platform, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please, Johnny," she begged. "Just one shot. Just one shot and then I won't ask you again. I'll kick it, I swear. Just let me have this one shot and then, so help me, I'll be through with heroin for the rest of my life."
Johnny laughed again, shifting his six-foot-two frame to a more comfortable position on the foam rubber surface of the platform. He was broad and well muscled -- built like the heavyweight fighter that he could have been if he hadn't found an easier way to make a living. A pink scar running from a point alongside his right eye nearly to his chin was evidence that things hadn't always come easy.
Johnny Walker had been born in Corona, one of New York City's lesser-known slums. Although every bit as oppressive and as savage as New York's other Black ghettoes, Corona never received much attention from the city's sensation seeking tabloids, perhaps because it was located in the borough of Queens, always less dramatic than Manhattan. As a result, Corona received even fewer city services than the better-known Harlem and Bedford-Stuyvesant sections.
Ever since he was a kid, Johnny fought for everything that he got. At first his fighting was restricted to the crowded two-room apartment occupied by his mother and her family of twelve. Back then the victims of his fury had been his brothers, his sisters, and his cousins. And his rewards had been a few more inches of elbow room and a couple of extra forkfuls of hominy grits, stolen from someone else's plate when his mother wasn't looking.
By the time he was ten, Johnny's fighting had moved on to the streets and into the yard of the broken-down old Corona school building that he visited whenever the mood was upon him. Children three or four years older than he were already learning to fear his quick temper and his flying fists. But Johnny didn't emerge completely unscathed from his fights.
Having spent the early part of his life making enemies, it was only natural that some of them would look for a way to strike back at him. It happened one day when he was twelve years old. Johnny found himself cornered in one of Corona's garbage-strewn back alleys, surrounded by six of the young Black boys who had felt the force of his wrath in the past.
After beating him for the better part of a half-hour, the boys had left him for dead, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood. But Johnny, who was tougher than they reckoned, had managed to drag himself home where his mother, using a darning needle and black button thread, sewed up the gash on his face and patched up his other injuries.
Johnny stayed home for two weeks, licking his wounds and waiting for his strength to return. Then, borrowing a knife from one of his older brothers, he went after the boys who had attacked him. He was patient and cunning, waiting for an opportunity to get each of them alone. When Johnny's rampage of vengeance had ended, five of the boys wore facial scars like his own. The sixth was pronounced dead on arrival at Elmhurst General Hospital, the cause of death officially listed as "loss of blood".
Johnny never bothered to return the knife to his brother, keeping it with him ever since. It was the only weapon he ever needed in a world in which only the strong survived and compassion was a weakness. Few people ever bested him in a fight, and those who did always lived to regret it. For Johnny believed that a reputation for making life unpleasant for anyone who tangled with him was the only kind of life insurance that would do him any good. It worked for him.
By the time Johnny was sixteen, he had five girls turning tricks for him -- standing under the lamp-posts at the corner of One-Hundred-Eighth Street and Northern Boulevard waiting for the "white trade" that drove down to Corona at night hoping to pick up some Black pussy and maybe change their luck. From each of the girls Johnny collected seventy or eighty percent of the take, enough to pay for the fancy clothes that he had gotten used to wearing and for the rent on the apartment that he had been living in ever since his mother had thrown him out calling him "trash" and telling her daughters to stay away from him. He didn't spend any of the money on a car, though. Because it would be two years before he was old enough to drive.
In return, Johnny gave his girls protection. And he gave them junk. It hadn't taken Johnny long to learn that junk was the key to manipulating people in the ghetto. And he had a hunch that it might be the key to manipulating them on the outside, too. At sixteen, he didn't know much about life outside the ghetto. But he meant to find out...
To the police, Johnny Walker was just another neighborhood punk, making trouble now, but likely to spend his more mature years as a porter or a bootblack or a taxi driver over in Forest Hills. Most of them didn't even know him by name.
But to the men who profit by the Police Department's mistakes, Johnny Walker was distinguishing himself as a tough -- but smart -- young, in dependent racketeer. A kid who hadn't been to school but knew how to get his way with people. A kid who knew what made them tick. The men were especially impressed by the fact that, although Johnny had been dipping a finger in the small-fry dope traffic of Corona's back streets, he had been smart enough to stay off the stuff himself. Maybe he could even be relied upon.
It wasn't long before Johnny was approached by these men, and a deal was made. And it wasn't long before Johnny added numbers running to his burgeoning criminal operations. Johnny Walker was a man on the way up. He had already started thinking about what color Cadillac that he would buy. Next year. When be was old enough to drive.
When Johnny got his Cadillac a year later, he had already begun to outgrow Corona. He couldn't see any reason for staying out of Jackson Heights to the west or Elmhurst to the east. Color barriers meant nothing to him. Johnny had no prejudices. He hated everybody.
Now, looking down at Gloria kneeling on the floor and blubbering like a baby, Johnny laughed again. Corona was a long way off and a long time before. He remembered that day, twelve years before, when he had bought his first Cadillac, paying in cash to the amazement of the high-talking white salesman. He had driven his new car straight to Forest Hills. Not more than two miles south of Corona via One-Hundred-Eighth Street, it had been a whole different world to him then -- a world in which his new Cadillac didn't seem like such a big deal. He remembered stopping on Queens Boulevard to look around and resolving to settle for nothing less than the nicest apartment on the highest floor of the tallest building.
And now, twelve years later, he had all the things that he had dreamed about as a kid. His penthouse apartment in the Silver Towers was probably the most desirable in Forest Hills. His living room had been designed by one of New York's leading decorators. There was no other like it, anywhere. The floor was done in white vinyl with big splashes of bright color scattered carelessly across it like the spots on an artists palette. All the furniture was of molded plastic and foam rubber, rising out of the floor in all manner of other-worldly shapes and designs, yet each piece was perfectly comfortable and completely functional. Each piece of furniture was colored to match the section of floor that it occupied, making the whole room appear to be a cohesively molded unit.
In the center of the room was a black plastic platform, raised to the same height and serving the same purpose as a sofa. When Johnny was at home he occupied it, using the platform as his throne. All the other seats in the room had been carefully arranged so that they faced the black platform. The Forest Hills crime king liked his subjects to be attentive. Johnny liked the effect. It pleased him, as did the sight of Gloria, her dark face stained with tears, groveling at his feet.
"Please, Johnny," she sobbed. "I'll do anything for you. Anything you ask. Just give me a shot. Please. Just one shot."
Johnny smiled, flashing his gold-capped tooth.
"Anything I say, huh?" he said, frightening her with his sudden affability. "Wait a minute, then. I want Foxy to be here."
Then, turning away from Gloria and facing the back of the apartment, he called, "Foxy! Foxy, come on out here." Foxy was one of Johnny's henchmen. Along with the other two, Cobb and Edward, he occupied the rear section of Johnny's penthouse, converted from what had formerly been two apartments. Foxy was Johnny's closest associate -- though not his friend, for he had none. He was the muscle that Johnny used for his dirty work now that he had risen above soiling his own hands. If Johnny Walker was Forest Hills vice king, then Foxy was his Captain of the Guard, his enforcer, carrying out the big man's orders and seeing to it that all his underlings did the same.
A moment after Johnny called him, Foxy entered the room, his white skin appearing almost yellow, a result of the fact that he rarely went outside in daylight. He was short -- about five-foot-six -- and built like a bullet. Even his head was bullet-shaped, coming to a bluntly rounded point at the top. His gray -- nearly white -- hair was cropped close to his head, the bristly covering accentuating his bullet-shaped skull and making him look like a gnome.
Foxy was dressed in a stained leather vest and equally stained leather pants. The bulging muscles of his shoulders, back and biceps threatened to tear the vest apart at the seams. His pants, fastened at the front with a leather thong, gaped open, revealing the curling growth of silvery hair on his belly and loins.
"Foxy, you know Gloria, don't you?" Johnny said, his voice taking on a mockingly courteous cadence.
"Yes, I believe I do," Foxy answered, sensing the game that his boss was playing. Foxy's voice was gruff, as though hoarsened but not quieted by a permanent case of laryngitis.
Gloria began to sob again. "Oh, come on Johnny," she wailed. "Don't tease me. Foxy knows me as well as you do. I've been living in your bedroom for the past three months."
Johnny looked angry. "Shut up, bitch," he spat. "You said you'd do anything for a shot. Now's your chance to prove it. Take off your clothes."
Gloria looked up at Foxy and her eyes opened wide. Then she turned back to Johnny. "Oh, come on, Johnny," she said, her voice falling to a whisper. "Not in front of him. I'm your girl. Yours alone. Please, Johnny. Don't make me do this. I'm your girl." She began to cry and the rest of her words were swallowed in her sobs.
"Then do as I tell you," Johnny responded coldly, his lips drawn tightly across his flashing teeth. "You want a shot. Now take off your clothes." Then, changing his tone to a friendlier one, he added, "I just want Foxy to see your tracks -- your needle marks -- so he'll know how badly you need the fix. You're still my girl."
Gloria brought her sobbing under control although the tears continued to fall. "If you say so, Johnny," she said hopelessly. She rose from the floor without using her hands to assist her. Her lean body was lithe and sinewy. Before meeting Johnny, she had been a dancer, working whenever she was lucky enough to get an occasional chorus part in an off-Broadway show.
But her legs trembled as she stood before Johnny trying to compose herself so that she could do as he had ordered. Johnny looked at her without saying another word. Her skin was brown, the color of chocolate milk, and her hair was done in an Afro that stood out three or four inches from her head. Her thin face, high cheekbones, and long, narrow nose was evidence of the American Indian blood which had run through the veins of her maternal grandfather. Her eyes, round and very dark, were framed by long curling lashes and perfectly formed eyebrows. She hadn't been a heroin addict long enough to lose her beauty. But it wouldn't be much longer now.
Gloria's tits were small, barely disturbing the lean curve of her body under the soft, black, long-sleeved sweater that she was wearing. Her nipples poked juttingly against the material. But her dancer's legs were muscular and her ass full, round, and well developed. It had been her ass which had first drawn Johnny to her three months before at a party given by the producer of an off-Broadway musical. Now he was tired of her, and impatient with the addiction which he had given her and which now had robbed her of her last vestige of pride.
"Come on, girl," he said. "Foxy hasn't got all day." His voice was soft but menacing. Gloria shuddered, her need for junk having not quite blocked the realization of what Johnny Walker had helped her to become.
Resigned to her lack of choice she reached for the buttons at the front of her sweater and began to undo them, one by one. When she opened the third button, the sweater fell open, revealing the soft curve of her petite tits and allowing the air of the room to caress, the firm black nipples, bringing them to turgid erection. She finished unbuttoning her sweater and shrugged out of it, her pert little titties quivering from side to side.
"Rub 'em," Johnny ordered. "Rub your titties so that Foxy can see how nice and firm they are."
Gloria's lower lip began to tremble as she reached up to comply with Johnny's command. She had lived with him for three months now, and had been happy to satisfy his every sexual whim in the privacy of his bedroom. He had often asked her to caress her own body, while he watched, but he had never humiliated her this way before, making her perform for another man.
She cupped her tits in her hands, rolling them from side to side and brushing the tips of her fingers across the stiff nipples. From the corner of her eye she could see Foxy licking his lips as she stroked the small, but firm, cone-shaped mounds of brown flesh.
"Take everything off," Johnny said. "I want Foxy to see your ass."
Without hesitation, Gloria dropped her hands to her waist and undid the snap which closed the waistband of her flare-bottomed yellow pants. She unzipped the front and began working the pants down over her full round hips. She was numb to her own humiliation now, thinking only of the heroin that Johnny would give her when he would have finished tormenting her. Thinking about the way everything would suddenly be all right, when the needle slipped into her vein, was almost enough to make her degradation bearable.
Gloria dropped her pants to the floor and stepped out of them. She wore nothing but the black lace panties which clung to her hips and stretched snugly across her ass. She could feel Foxy's eyes boring right through the flimsy material. She was about to remove them when Johnny spoke.
"Come here, Gloria," he said. She stood in front of him her thumbs hooked into the elastic waistband of her black drawers. "Bend over now," he ordered, gesturing with his hands. Like an automaton, Gloria hastened to obey him, bending forward, and resting the palms of her hands on the platform in front of her.
Johnny, who was sitting off to one side, leaned forward and placed his hand on Gloria's hip. "Look at this, Foxy," he said. "See what a fine pair of legs she has." As he spoke, his long black fingers stroked the backs of her thighs, running lightly across their pocked surface. "But look at all these junk-tracks." His fingertips lingered at each of the dozens of needle scars that dotted the silky smooth skin of her shapely brown thighs.
Then he suddenly took hold of the elastic waistband of her lacy black panties and pulled them roughly downward. Gloria could feel the material straining to hold together, and then parting with a loud rip. Johnny tore the panties from her in tatters, a scrap of material catching between her legs and bruising her cunt as he pulled. Now she was naked, her full round ass fully exposed to Foxy's gaze as she bent over the platform. Johnny reached between her legs with one hand and rubbed the puffed-up lips of her glistening pink pussy.
In spite of her shame and humiliation, Gloria felt her cuntal lips beginning to pout and her cunt juices beginning to flow, moistening the pink folds of her pussy flesh. Johnny parted the hair-fringed lips and allowed some of the thick creamy moisture to ooze between them. Dipping his index finger into the cream, he spread it thickly over the length of her slit, smearing some of it into the wiry black hair which surrounded her cunt in a furry triangle.
"Nice and wet," he said. "Here, have a taste." Pulling his hand suddenly from her cunt, he brought it to a position directly in front of her face. He held his index finger straight out under her nose and wagged it slowly from side to side. "Have a taste," he repeated.
Gloria heard Foxy, laugh as she snaked out her tongue and licked the juice off Johnny's finger. She couldn't see him, bent over the way she was, but she knew that he was somewhere behind her and that he was enjoying the sight of her obscenely naked ass and pussy, naked and lewdly offered for his amusement. She wanted to die!
But Johnny had reached for her cunt again and was rubbing it gently up and down. In spite of her shame and humiliation, she felt her clitoris spring to erection. Johnny's finger was probing the little tent of cuntal flesh which sheathed it, probing in the cuntal juices for the pea-size pleasure button. When his fingernail began scratching gently at the little pearly erection of flesh, she drew her breath in sharply, unable to restrain the excitement which was building inside her body. She hated Johnny for his control over her, just as she had once loved him for it.
"Like that?" Johnny asked, his voice soft.
"Mmmmmm, yesssss," she cooed, for a moment forgetting the presence of Foxy and imagining that she and Johnny were alone.
"Then do it yourself," Johnny said, his voice suddenly hard and cold again.
Hot tears of shame filled Gloria's eyes and began to run down her cheeks. How could he do this to her after all the time they had spent together? He was making her degrade herself in front of Foxy, he was making sport of her by holding back the shot of dope that he knew she needed so badly.
Gloria's voice was racked with sobs as she whispered, a look of quiet desperation off her face, "Please, Johnny. Don't make me do that."
Johnny smiled contemptuously, flashing his gold-capped tooth again. "You don't have to," he said. "Unless you want a shot."
Leaning all her weight on her left hand, Gloria, still bent forward over the platform, reached between her legs and rubbed her own cunt. She stroked the entire moistened length with her fingers, conscious that the fleshy lips were flowering open excitedly. She dipped one long supple finger inside, moving it slowly around in the hot creamy warmth of her inner cunt. The little shocks of pleasure that were flashing through her body were somehow beginning to soothe the burning embarrassment that she had felt a moment before.
She stiffened her middle finger and began driving it, cock-like, in and out of her drooling pussy. Johnny was toying with her, idly stroking her tits. Little electric tingles of delight were starting to emanate from the quivering nerve-endings which were concentrated in her nipples and were traveling downward to ripple into full scale tidal currents in her belly as they joined the pleasure waves generated by the plunging finger with which she stroked her own pussy. Her hips began to move involuntarily, keeping rhythm with the fucking motion of her finger. She could feel the warm air of the room washing over her asshole as her firm round cheeks separated and came together in time with her movements.
"Her ass is for you, Foxy," Johnny said, his voice hard and cold again. "And, Gloria," he added, "if you want that shot, you'd better not miss a stroke with your finger."
When Gloria heard Johnny's words, her blood ran cold. He was offering her to Foxy, like some morsel of patronage passed along by a king to his prime minister. "Her ass," he had said. Gloria was about to protest when she remembered what he had said about not giving her a shot. Her need for heroin made her whip her finger even faster in and out of her cunt. In a few minutes this will be over, she thought, and then I can get my shot.
She had too much invested to blow it now. And it wouldn't be the first time that she had been fucked in the ass. Johnny had been especially fond of doing that to her the past three months, and she had become a veteran in the time that she had lived with him.
Gritting her teeth she tried to prepare herself for whatever was coming. Behind her she heard Foxy fumbling with the leather thong at the front of his pants. As she continued fingering her own pussy, she leaned forward a little further so that she could look back at him through her legs.
Oh my God, she thought suddenly as she saw his pants drop to the floor. He's tremendous. His cock is too big. I'll never be able to take it in my asshole. Above her, she heard Johnny chuckling, as though something very funny was happening. She knew that he was laughing at her.
Foxy was now moving toward her, his massive cock swaying from side to side as he approached. The sight of that mastodon terrified her. It was long and thick -- as big around as the base of a beer bottle. The swollen purple cockhead was the size of a man's fist -- thick and massive, engorged with blood and hardened by lust. She was sure that he would kill her with it.
Although she knew that it was hopeless, Gloria couldn't keep herself from begging Johnny for mercy. "Please," she wailed. "I'll never live through this. Johnny, have a heart. Haven't I meant anything to you?"
But Johnny's answer was clipped and curt. "Forget it, Foxy," he said. "She doesn't want that shot after all."
"No, I didn't mean it." Gloria said imploringly. "I've got to have the shot. I'll do it. I'll do anything."
"Well this is your last chance," he said. "No more complaints. You're liable to hurt Foxy's feelings."
Foxy was right behind her now. She could smell his body as he approached. It smelled as though he hadn't washed in a month. Mechanically, she continued to piston her finger in and out of her pussy, afraid that if she stopped, Johnny would make good his threat to withhold the shot. She put all her weight on her left hand, leaning forward as far as she could until her face pressed against the cool vinyl of the platform's mattress. Johnny had moved back for a better view.
Gloria felt Foxy's ham-like hands on her fright quivering body now, grabbing her hips and pinching the softly rounded cheeks of her ass. The flesh was firm and muscular from all the exercise that she had gotten as a dancer. Her inactivity of the past three months, lying in bed all day waiting for Johnny's pleasure, had robbed her thighs and buttocks of some of their tone. But they hadn't yet gone to flab.
She could feel Foxy's hands pulling roughly at the soft mounds of flesh, separating the cheeks to reveal the tightly winking brown slit of her anus, nestled safely in the valley between them. She felt the heat of his breath on her asshole as he leaned forward and brought his face next to the pungent slit. Since she had been using junk steadily, Gloria hadn't bathed much herself. The fragrance that greeted Foxy's nostrils was heady and aromatic. It made his already-stiff cock throb painfully with desire.
Huckering a gob of saliva from the back of his throat, Foxy spat onto the tight brown slit that lewdly lay offered up before him. He hit the mark, the thick ball of saliva thoroughly coating the puckered lips of Gloria's soft brown asshole. Then, jabbing at her with a stiff finger, he forced some of the lubricating moisture into her anal crevice itself, probing relentlessly against the opening until finally the pouting lips separated admitting his finger as far as the second knuckle. He twisted it one way and then the other, smearing the warm saliva around the inner walls of her clutching rectum.
Then, with no further preparation, he straightened up and stepped into position, the thick bulbous head of his swollen prick nudging insistently at the tensely resisting lips of her glisteningly lubricated asshole. Gloria, continued stroking her cunt automatically. Fear had stopped the flow of moisture and her probing finger irritated and bruised the dry inner walls of her twat. But Johnny's threat kept her hand working, moving her finger in and out.
She knew that Foxy would drive his mammoth hardon into her any minute now and tried to prepare herself for the searing pain that would follow his entry. But no amount of preparation could have readied her for the sudden agony of his penetration. Like a powerful battering ram, Foxy's cock, swollen with lustful desire, plowed its way past the protesting lips of her tormented asshole and buried itself in her warmly clasping anal depths. Gloria couldn't contain the gasp of pain which tore from her lips as his relentless prick assaulted her brutally, punishing her anus and rectum with twisting, tearing in-strokes that seemed to reach her belly itself and with pulling, tugging out-strokes that brought the inner walls of her anal cavity following his pistoning penis halfway out of her.
But heedless of her agony, Foxy continued his buggering, feeling the walls of her lower bowel clasp tightly at his cock, milking it, squeezing it, stroking it in a series of spiraling contractions that threatened to swallow it like a snake might swallow a live mouse. He could feel the hair of her back turned pussy stroking at his heavily swinging sack of balls as he pumped his body forward and back, driving his cock yet deeper into her nether channel.
Gloria had abandoned the stroking of her own pussy now and, was using both hands to support her body weight. Cries of pain were tearing rhythmically from her lips as Foxy pounded her like a piece of tough meat, forcing his thick cock into the tunneling warmth of her anus, overcoming the weak resistance offered by her elastic ass muscles. He felt the curling silver hair of his pubic mound, dank with a mixture of sweat and sexual secretions, crushing against the chocolate-brown softness of the lobes of the girl's ass and knew that he had plowed her to the hilt.
He drew his hips all the way back, moving them from side to side, until no more than the bulbous head of his punishing cock remained buried in her swampy anal depths. Then, just as Gloria was beginning to hope that he would withdraw completely, he rammed forward again, driving the thick pole of hotly palpitating flesh as far as it could go into the tightly constricting channel of her suffering asshole. An animal groan of satisfied pleasure escaped from his throat drowning Gloria's wail of agony.
Foxy could feel a climax building in his swinging swaying scrotum. The thin muscular body of Johnny Walker's chocolate dancer was wrapped tightly around the shank of his meaty cock, pulling its thick collar of flesh up and down as he assfucked her. The fact that she had been Walker's girl for the past few months made her even more attractive to Foxy. Degrading her this way while Johnny looked on in amusement seemed to put Foxy on the same level as his boss and made him feel important. He knew that be rose a notch in Johnny's estimation for every tormented cry that his cudgel-cock brought from Gloria's tortured lips.
Her asshole was wonderfully tight, and Foxy knew that it wouldn't be long before he pumped her full of his hot joy-juices giving her a thick gooey enema. He pumped faster and humped harder hearing Gloria's cries become louder and more agonized. He knew that no woman's asshole could ever stretch wide enough to accept his cock comfortably, and Johnny apparently knew it, too. For here he was using Foxy's cock as a tool in the subjugation of Gloria.
This realization added to Foxy's mounting excitement and he felt his balls about to explode as he drove his burgeoning prick onward in the roiling depths of the girl's anus. In a moment, his climax was upon him. He felt his cock swelling and then spitting like a submachine gun, pumping pellet after pellet of thick hot semen into the wide open channel of Gloria's nether passage.
The flood of hot sperm eased the friction of Foxy's penetration, greasing her rectum and allowing his swollen cock to slip in and out more freely and less painfully. Gloria knew that he couldn't stay hard much longer now that he was ejaculating. Soon it would be over and she would have her shot. But his stamina was incredible and he drove on and on pumping load after load of swirling hot scum into her burning belly.
Then at last she felt the thick but deflating cock slip from her asshole, leaving the lips of her anus stretched, flaccid, and gaping open to allow a hot trickle of sperm to drip unchecked from inside. She slumped forward against the foam rubber surface of the platform and then slid to the floor, the pain in her ass slowly subsiding but not altogether disappearing. She could feel the thick juices of Foxy's orgasm sloshing around inside her, dripping from her anus and running down the backs of her needle-scarred thighs.
She looked imploringly at Johnny Walker, shivering involuntarily at the snarl of hatred which distorted his lips. "Can I have my shot now?" she asked, her voice soft and strained.
"I guess you've earned it," Johnny said contemptuously. "But it's the last shot you're ever going to get from me." Then turning to Foxy who had already pulled on his leather pants and was tying them at the front, the Black gangster said, "Give her a fix and get her out of here. I don't want to see her again."
His words struck Gloria like a stinging slap. She knew, of course, that Johnny was finished with her now. Otherwise he wouldn't have treated her that way. But here he was talking about her like some kind of stray dog that had, wandered in out of the street. She looked up at him through defeated eyes. If only he would say one kind word she thought, anything to acknowledge the good times we had together.
But his words were cold and hard and full of hate. "Now take your shot and beat it," he said. "If you really shake your ass, you might be able to get down to Eighth Avenue and hustle enough money to buy your next fix by peddling your ass with the rest of the junkie whores. Your freeloading days are over."
Then, yawning and stretching elaborately, Johnny headed for his bedroom, leaving Gloria with Foxy.
CHAPTER THREE
Connie looked around the living room of Fred Bergen's dimly lit apartment, hoping to spot a familiar face. But the cloud of thick blue smoke which filled the room made her eyes burn and she found it difficult to see anything clearly. Finding herself a cushion on the floor, she settled down, her back propped against a wall, to get her bearings for a moment. She had been at the party for at least fifteen minutes and, so far, she hadn't seen anybody that she knew.
Connie had been living in Forest Hills for nearly a month, occupying a furnished studio apartment on One-Hundred-Third Street just off Queens Boulevard. The rental was high, but she had drawn expenses in advance from the Police Department Paymaster before going out on the assignment. She found the apartment on her first day out and had moved the suitcase containing all her civilian clothes into it at once.
When Connie rented the apartment, she told the landlord that she was nineteen years old and a student at a downtown Manhattan art school. Her long hair, done in braids and tied with two thick pieces of brightly colored yarn, made her story easy for him to believe. When she added that her family lived in Connecticut and that she would be staying in Forest Hills only as long as she remained in school, the landlord had insisted on collecting two months rent in advance. Connie had accepted this as proof that her cover story was convincing and considered it her first victory as an undercover agent.
She told the same story to all the kids that she met at the Glass Onion, which she began to frequent almost as soon as she moved into the neighborhood. She made it her business to drop in at the Forest Hil
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