The King is Dead, Long Live the Queen

The King is Dead, Long Live the Queen

Short Fiction

Richard Barr

 

 

 

I’d met her at a Bonnie Tyler Tribute Night and I’d given her my number on that night, too. But I didn’t remember doing that, giving her my number, not till she texted me out of the blue the next day.

And that was because, me not remembering I’d met this person, nor given her my number, that was because, I’d got that drunk on my G and Ts belting out all Ms Tyler’s hits, partaking in the Bonnie Tyler Tribute Night, that had a ten tonne elephant fallen through the ceiling during those overwrought proceedings, I wouldn’t have been able to recall it the next day, not one detail of it, were you to have asked me if I did…the next day…not even one thing of it would I recall, not one.

So anyway, her text was nice, coquettish, with a hint, maybe, maybe not, of the salacious, maybe it was just me and my dirty mind reading that into that.

She rounded the text off with, ‘So 2moro night? How u fancy it, handsome? Back @ the John Hewitt where we hit it off over the Bonnie Tyler, eh? Say 7?’

I texted back in the affirmative, intrigued. I wracked my brain trying to remember her, and did manage to conjure up in my recollections a short and dark featured lady, who kept on pushing her fringe out of her eyes.

Was she sexy or was she not, though? The only way to find that out was to go put eyes on her the next day.

And was she sexy? Was she sexy!

I was twenty-four back in those days, she forty-two, and the age difference really turned me on. She was dark, like I remembered her—heavy-lidded, dusky eyed and big voluptuous lips painted bright red. She was around five foot five, and her ass swung like a pendulum when she walked.

Between seven to fifteen minutes into our date, approximately, she told me that her father had raped her from she was a toddler till she was about fourteen, and fourteen’s when she ran away from home and took up with a biker gang.

Now, most men, undoubtedly, would’ve run a mile on hearing that, especially so soon into the very first date. Made their excuses and left, or, if they were cruel, climbed out the window in the men’s.

But not me.

In fact, when I heard this, me being me, first thing ran through my mind was: I bet this bitch is a demon on the springs…which, as it happened, is what she turned out to be; but more on that later.

It was only in the taxi home we got around to exchanging names, so caught up were we in talking about what we talked about on our first date: incest, Guns ‘n’ Roses, bikers and crystal meth.

“My name’s, Pongo, Danny Pongo,” I said, kissing the back of her hand.

“My name’s Jude, Dirty Jude,” she said, cupping my balls and giving me a love bite.

I slept with her that night, the night of our first date.

Sometime into our coitus, I perceived many men standing around her bed.

I’d my face buried in her muff, right up in there, going three course meal on it, and suddenly, for some reason, remembering what my therapist told me when I told her about how during cunnilingus I always, without fail, felt the need to actually crawl up in there, and she told me this was to do with me wanting to go back to the embryonic stage—anything to feel weightless again—and that she thought that, in so much couched psychobabble talk, that the solution to this was that I should just grow up.

So I’m thinking about this bastard of a therapist of mine and what she said to me that time, when I spy this figure out the corner of my eye. It’s a heavy-set, baldy man, tall, in a black turtleneck, but he’s no face.

I start thinking he’s some cunt emerged from out the wardrobe with a stocking over his head, and I flash back to the mild-to-mid level anxiety pangs I experienced when we were in the taxi back to her’s, when I was wondering to myself if this moonbeam wasn’t setting me up for a torture/murder/rape extravaganza, wherever she was taking me.

And it seemed I’d kenned it correctly back there in the taxi, because this big baldy shithawk, here, now, in my present perceiving, seemed so real-looking to me, I was sure this was some sort of sadistic cuck game being launched, and that I was in for it with a knife or a cosh or something from this brute.

“Whaaa…uuddd duh fuck?” I said, slurring, on seeing him. Suddenly, around the bed, three other shadow forms appeared, three others besides Baldy: shadows wearing the shape of men.

“What you doing, stud? Get back down there,” said Dirty Jude, pressing down hard on my crown chakra, forcing me back down toward her sodden flower again.

“Man…men,” I said, groaning, my wasted-ness belying my terror. I pointed all across the room slowly, seemingly from one side to the other, my arm out straight, slim finger curled at the end of it. I’m like a stiff weathervane in a slow breeze.

“Sssshhh…Sssshhhh…” said Dirty Jude, her husky voice so soothing and steady. “It’s OK, pet. I know who they are. You don’t need to fret, love.”

She pulled my face into her large, bountiful and motherly tits and stroked my hair and rocked my head in her lovely smelling arms. “Sssshhh…Sssshhh…” she whispered.

The next morning—a warm, sunny day—we’re out in her garden drinking her exquisite Italian coffee.

I get straight onto the men. “Who were those men, Dirty Jude? Were they ghosts? Demons?”

“Yes! Maybe they’re both those things. Maybe they’re neither,” she said, clapping her hands. “I tell you what they’re not, though. They’re not what my shrink told me they were, which is simply projections of my own inner turmoil and madness: hallucinations, in other words. Bastards have got me on all these anti-psychotics, tell me they’ll take the men away, these evil pills.”

“Well you need to get off that junk right now, immediately. Y’know, nowadays, the biggest pushers aren’t to be found skulking round corners, slinging smack to schoolchildren, no, they’re to be found behind big mahogany desks in your local GP surgery.”

“Amen,” said Dirty Jude, waving her hands in the air like a Pentecostal.

“Anyway, you say you’ve seen these men too?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she said. “I’ve seen them. They’ve been following me…a long time. And now, love chop, you have brought me confirmation that I’m not mad, I’m not hallucinating, that these are things, beings, entities that somebody independent of me has witnessed, too. You have brought me a great gift, Danny, in your bearing witness to these men, also.”

“Glad I could be of service,” I said, scared.

 

* * *

 

Back at home I was living with my sister, Danika. Danika had a boy named Francois, who liked to tell people he was cis-gender, by way of introducing himself.

It was Mother’s Day, and Danika used that as an excuse to finally introduce Francois to ours, our own Mother.

“My name is Francois, and I’m cis-gender,” said Francois, offering his hand to Mother limply, like he was letting spunk run off his fingers.

“Delighted, I’m sure,” said mother pinching his fingertips in her’s, like she was handling shite. “Cis-gender? Is that a new way for you young people to say you’re sissy nowadays? I know, now, in my day, being a sissy’s not something you’d admit to, but this modern age, you young ones all so open about your feelings, so…confessional…I love it! Who needs gossip mags when you got the ‘cis-gendered’, eh?!…So, you’re saying you’re a sissy, yeh?”

“That is absolutely correct, Mother, spot on,” I said, butting in. “Why, you’ve still got it, old stick. Still got your finger on the pulse of all that’s fresh, dear. More in that head of yours than the comb’ll take out, that’s for sure. But, you’re right. He’s telling you he’s a sissy, is what he’s saying, absolutely!”

“Thank you, Danny, and thank you as well, Danny, for your unnecessary and disingenuous platitudes—I will cherish them forever,” said Mother, trying to be spiteful.

Some moments passed in awkward silence. Mother took this on with an indulgent air, believing in her head, I’m sure, that that same awkward silence was because of the hurt she’d caused from said previous spitefulness above suddenly setting in amongst us all, Danika, Francois and myself, just like wet cement hardening.

Francois broke the silence, piping up, saying, by way of a revenge attack on me, Danny Pongo, “Danny has a girl—or, should I say, a…ladyfriend…”

I glared at Danika, heart broke that she’d shared with this effete soyboy ingénue the details of my dalliance with Dirty Jude. “That’s right,” she said, smelling blood, compounding her betrayal. “She is a ladyfriend, ain’t she, Danny?”

“Oh my God!” interjected mother. ‘Is he riding…babies? Christ in heaven, no! is this more of your young people lingo—ladyfriends i.e. babies!?I hope not!” she cried.

“How are you getting child abuse from ladyfriend, Ms Pongo?” said Francois, giggling and grinning and giggling again.

“She’s forty-two,” squealed Danika.

“Oh my God then it’s she’s the pederphile and it’s my Danny’s getting molested!” screamed mother, hammering the table.

“I’m rwenty-four,” I hissed, “near ten years clear of ever being unlawfully molested by anyone, you daft cunt!”

And her reply to that was a roundhouse direct to the temple…and from there…lights out.

When I came to, I was propped up in my old man’s old armchair, the arms wore threadbare from him digging his elbows into them in anger, watching the news or the politics shows. It’d been nigh on twenty years since he’d perished doing important work for the government.

“Now,” said Mother, looming over me like a storm cloud, “you speak to Mother like that again, she put you in hospital next time, you hear?”

“I hear, Mother,” I said, cowed.

“Here’s your stew, boy. Not that you deserve it. And speaking to Mother like that on Mother’s Day as well, would you credit it, I ask you?”

“My apologies again, dear,” I said, staring down at my stew, wondering how I would finish even half of it, when I spy, plain as day, a coiled pubis resting atop it like a sickly old tree crowning an otherwise barren and sad looking hill.

“How you liking your stew, Danny?” asked Mother, menace in her tone.

“Could do with a little less pubic hair,” I opined.

“Huh!” she grunted, a look of den-mother craziness passing across her big, severe face. “See the colour of that pubis?”

“…It’s grey?” I said on getting my eyes close in, examining it. 2Christ on a Christmas Tree! It’s not yours, is it?”

“It is. And you know why I’ve put it there for you to see? I put it there for you to see, because that cat you’re with is only one year younger than me, Mother. So, that’ll be the colour of her’s too.”

“She’s black hair!” I said, feeling the boke rise in my gullet but wanting a row with the auld cunt anyway.

“She may have black hair, idiot fool boy!” squawked Mother, “but the bitch dyes it. Guarantee the curtains don’t match the carpets! Not like me, your Mother, Danny. Mother’s gonna age as The Lord intended…upstairs and down,” she said, pointing at her downstairs, “will grey gracefully and naturally. No falseness with Mother. Not like this dirty hoor cat bastard you’ve shacked up with now, the dirty, dirty bitch.”

“OK,” I said, getting up and putting my bomber jacket on, “I don’t think I can eat your pubis stew. I’m gonna get a Big Mac on the way home. And by the way,” I said with hateful abandon, “a Big Mac is nicer than your nicest stew.”

“Pig,” she went, squawking again, going to roundhouse me again, too, though I ducked this time, going and running out the house as I pivoted. “That auld McDonald’s give you cancer, idiot fool,” she squealed down the drive after me, “and as a matter of fact, I hope it does!”

 

* * *

 

I ran on up to Dirty Jude’s after Mother’s hostile verbals, spent the rest of the afternoon with my head laid on her tummy, her stroking my hair.

“There, there, chile,” she cooed, undoing my zip and playing with my thing. “Now you just forget all about your evil auld mummy and gimmie some sugar, won’t you, love chop.”

“Sure thing,” I said, feeling my sense of the cosseted, maternal warmness I was getting off her turn and give way and be replaced by big lustful passion in my loins.

I spent three quarters of an hour eating her out, her legs threw back behind her head practically. I’ve her opened up like a book and she’s flowing heavy and steady, my whole bake plastered in her thick, sweet smelling wet. I worked my fingers slowly in and round and through her, my tongue bouncing against her pert clit like a boxer bashing a speed bag, one hand pressed half-heavy into her guts, the other working like a malfunctioning out-of-control piston against her spongy swollen G-Spot. She’s howling the place down, and I’m wondering what that baldy cunt demon and his mates make of this, when she cums, cums hard, squirting fast and hard and ferocious as a fireman’s hose, right in my face, after which she writhes around like a brain spastic having a seizure, wee noises coming out of her like she’s trying to talk but can’t.

I grabbed a good look at her pubes then as she lay in this, a state of blissed out obliviousness, and was pleased to see that while they weren’t black like her hair, neither were they grey—more a coppery/dirty fair colour—and this was good.

Nevertheless, I asked her, “Dirty Jude, how’d you fancy it if I give you an erotic shave? An erotic shave’s when you let your lover shave your pussy. I like a bald muff, you dig?”

So satisfied was she with my cunnilingus she didn’t even think twice in consenting to let me shave her muff bald. Fuck, I reckon she’d have let me do anything to her in that moment.

After a lovely hot soapy bath, during which I performed this erotic shave, she asked me if I wanted to fuck her up the ass.

“You ain’t even blew a nut yet, love chop,” she purred.

“Fuck, you’re right,” I went, looking at my thing, stood there still aloft, completely singular in its arousal, realising I’d nearly forgotten about it.

“Now, you are some boy, Monsieur Pongo. So preoccupied in satisfying your lover’s needs, you completely forget about your own.”

“Uh-huh,” I replied.

“And so for that selfless service, I want to reward you,” she said, rolling onto her tummy and spreading her ass cheeks. “I want you to pop my anal cherry,” she whispered this time, a big fat red cherry, stem up, sticking out her asshole.

I pulled the cherry out, bit into it, let the juices fall into her rabbit’s-nostril-like hole, so as to use it as lubricant. I was pleased with myself at my precision in landing most of it in there.

When the cherry was spent I gebbed in her asshole, too, lubing it up even more, then I started giggling at her.

“If you’re an anal virgin, Dirty Jude, then I’m fucking Bob Marley,” I said, before slowly passing my thing inside her, right up into her guts.

The anal was sublime, but quick lived—I never could hold those horses back when I’d the tight, tight passage of the shite-pipe wrapped neat around my thing. And I wasn’t fussy either; man or woman’s asshole, it didn’t matter to me.

We straight screwed some more, three more times matter of fact, right up till after the Ten O’Clock News with Trevor McDonald.

During the weather, Dirty Jude prepped a spliff, garnishing the baccy and bud with a tiny bit of ketamine in as well.

We passed it slowly and silently between ourselves, me massaging her shoulders, her stroking my six-pack with her fingertips. We smoked the spliff down, and as the roach approached, Dirty Jude give it over to me.

“You kill it, lover. Then I want you to take that big Purple Headed Love Warrior of yours, and I want you to kill me with it!”

“Listen, now, Jude, I don’t think I got it in me, wee sex-dynamo. The tank empty.”

“The tank’s not empty. Boy your age, the tank is never empty! Fuck me or fuck off,” she said.

“Then I’m fuckin off,” I told her, getting up on weak legs, pulling on me and leaving.

 

* * *

 

I left it a day or two, didn’t establish any contact with the moonbeam at all.

Then, on a Wednesday morning, about four thirty in the morning, she texts me, high or drunk or something. Full of sorries, and dirty big sexy overtures.

“…So gorge-jizz,” read the end of the text, “so so sory. Takin u & big cack for franted. But dirty jude’s legs are always spread for dany pogo…Come fuck me more mornin noon nor nite son.”

I was glad to get this text as Danika, and more to the point Sissy Francois, were doing my melon in.

Francois had bought a handbag dog, some type of genetically shrunk down Chihuahua thing, and it was shitting all over our pad, big human looking shit as well, totally disproportionate to the tiny size of the animal.

This one afternoon, I come back from being out on a drug hustle, when I find a big shite right smack in the middle of the kitchen floor. So I think to myself, some burglar’s been in, stole my gear and my scratch, and he’s left this here as his calling card. But then the Chihuahua comes trotting out, Francois chasing after it, and he sees the shit and throws his hands in the air, “Oh, Francois the Second! Dirty, dirty boy!”

“That’s his?” I squealed, pointing at it. “I thought a human had broke in and laid that there! Christ Alive, that’s brutal! You get that fucking runt out of here, now. Take it to your own gaff.”

To which Francois the First turned on his heel, huffing, going, “Danika! Danika, we need to talk!”

…so yeah, I was glad to be able to go back and shack up with Dirty Jude again, if only for a day or two.

I hated dogs, and I hated dogs’ shit.

 

* * *

 

I got there in the afternoon, finding her with her pal Chantelle who was a redhead and a witch, too, she told me.

“We were expecting you,” said Dirty Jude.

“We knew you’d be coming,” continued Chantelle.

She was the same height and build as Dirty Jude, but had none of her dark features. Her long beautiful orange ringlets of hair and her snowy porcelain skin was what lent her her striking beauty, and it was in sublime contrast to Jude’s dusky Latin looks.

“Such a delight to meet you!” Chantelle said, hugging me close into herself after Dirty Jude introduced us, her privates, her tits, pressed right up against me. “I’ve heard so much about you…and him,” she said, squeezing my thing and giggling. I stiffened instantly, it dawning on me I was going to get to get down with both these sexy and primed wee fuckbuckets later.

But first, the very serious business of Witchcraft and Magick had to be engaged with.

In the procedure that followed, Dirty Jude and Chantelle brought me up to Jude’s bedroom, what Chantelle called The Queen’s Chamber.

There she threw salt all around the place, then she said, “Jude…Dirty Jude, my little nymph, my sad, broken, beautiful little one. These men, these creatures, attached themselves to you in those times your evil father blotted your very soul, so young and fresh and pure, then. These were, are, creatures that invaded your auric field at that time and have been with you ever since…these men, these creatures, these demons…and now this man, this good and brave and wise and seeing man, Danny Pongo, has borne witness to them also. Now is the time to defeat them, girl… Are you with me, sweet one?” she asked Dirty Jude.

“I am,” she replied.

“Are you, Dawn’s Wolf?” she asked.

“That’s me?” I asked, laid on my back, nude, on Dirty Jude’s big bed. Chantelle glared at me. “I am,” I said, getting nervous.

Chantelle took a velvet pouch from the folds of her willowy hippy skirt, removing another big handful of salt from it and throwing even more about the place. And it wasn’t fish and chip shop salt either, this, but big granules of rock salt, which fell on my naked body like hail and stung a bit.

From what I could gather, Chantelle’s job was to rid Dirty Jude’s boudoir, house and life in general of these evil looking shadow demons, the baldy in particular, who seemed to be their leader.

Chantelle said that Baldy was a demon that had been attached to Dirty Jude’s father, many years before she was born, and that in his defilement of her, Baldy had gone from father to daughter.

Now it was time to dis-attach Baldy from Dirty Jude. How Chantelle proposed to do this, was by, what she called, raising a Cone of Power, using Sex Magick.

So what I thought I was going to get was a ménage-a-trois, but, had you asked me after if this was the sort of threesome I’d be up for get down with again, I’d answer, absolutely, definitively, no.

“First of all,” said Chantelle, “we will need blood, shit, piss and spunk…from you, Danny Pongo.”

“From me?” I replied.

“From you,” she repeated.

What was obvious by now, to me, was that Dirty Jude and Chantelle were fellows in some sort of witchcraft coven, which more than likely included members besides themselves, probably men, too. I knew from my sinister run-ins with the Black Magick crowd before that men could be witches as well, and that they, the men witches, were strange, strange fish, some of them dangerous into the bargain.

It was my feeling that this pair wanted to make me, Danny Pongo, a witch like they were.

Dirty Jude donned a latex glove and dipped her hand into a tub of KY Jelly. She began masturbating me in slow, tight strokes, telling me, “draw your legs back, Dawn’s Wolf,” and me, just remembering again my witch’s name was Dawn’s Wolf, complied, pulling my legs back and spreading them like I was about to get the dick.

What I got, though, wasn’t the dick, but Dirty Jude’s tongue, rimming the nerve endings of my asshole. And that—and the slow latex-gloved masturbation—felt radical.

“Don’t stop, sugar cube,” I moaned.

Chantelle started burning sage, leaving it in a holder on the windowsill, then she came over and stood by the bed. After a moment or two’s silence, during which she kept her eyes shut tight, she began chanting in a language I didn’t recognise.

When she was done with that, she said, “…so begins the Great Reversal, the Great Inversion…As Above, So Below,” she said, sparking up a spliff I’d spied her lace with ketamine earlier.

She took a big draw, rotating her beautiful head round and round at the neck, then passed the spliff to me.

I drew deeply from it, arching my back as Dirty Jude stuck the tip of her tongue up in my anus. Her slow masturbatory strokes suddenly became quicker as her tongue sunk deeper inside my asshole. I came with a shudder then felt her swap her tongue out for her index finger, which she slid deep up in me.

Chantelle placed the ketamine laced joint in between my lips again, and I drew deep off it once more. She French Kissed me slow then, just as I felt a cold, slim thing slice me under my left nipple. She kissed my neck, ticklish, then sucked up my left nipple softly between her teeth, letting her tongue play off the very tip. She worked her pinkie into the slice she’d made, drawing some blood out, which she then slurped up deeply, as much as she could get.

As Chantelle did that, Dirty Jude scooped my spunk up in a flannel then run it off into a chalice, which she then passed to Chantelle, who spat my blood into it.

Chantelle came around to the foot of the bed then and pushed my legs back, right back, at the knees.

Dirty Jude removed her latex glove and replaced it with a fresh one, dipping two fingers this time into the tub of KY Jelly. She stuck them both up in my asshole then, right in deep up the, extracting a tiny nugget of shite, which she dropped in the chalice with the blood and the spunk, mixing it all together with her un-gloved fingers.

Next, Chantelle produced from her hippy dress a little vial containing a glowing blue liquid.

“Drink this,” she said, pressing the vial to my lips.

I did as she told me. “Good,” she whispered, snogging me again.

As soon as the solution reached my guts I was met with an overwhelming need to piss. I turned, weak, over to the edge of the bed. Dirty Jude squatted next to me, holding a basin. I pissed a long hot stream, near filling it halfway. Chantelle scooped some of the piss up into the chalice then she mixed it all together, before handing it back to Jude.

Now came The Raising: The Raising of the Cone of Power…

…Chantelle stood over me, her arms held above her head, both her fists clenched. With a ferocious scream she brought these fists down, thumping me hard in the solar plexus, causing me to produce a loud, sonorous moan emanating from somewhere deeper than I imagined could even exist within a man.

Next to me on the bed Dirty Jude and Chantelle got down and started sixty-nineing, simultaneously bringing one another to climax very quickly, their groans of sexual ecstasy harmonising with my unworldly moaning, producing a majestic and beautiful sound.

After a few minutes, we three, all producing these soaring sonics from our bodies, slowed then stilled, the sound tapering off, dimming, then extinguishing, completely.

“The Cone of Power is risen,2 said Chantelle, panting. “So mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” replied me and Dirty Jude in tandem.

Back down in the living room, us all curled up together on Dirty Jude’s big sofa, we passed a joint between ourselves, none of us saying nothing, but all thinking about what just happened; what we just did.

Afterward, up in bed, after we’d all fallen silent, Chantelle drank off the goblet mixed with my excretions, then Dirty Jude did and finally I did.

I took off it, took a big gulp, like I was a connoisseur sampling fine brandy, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It tasted coppery and earthy.

And so in doing that, us all drinking from that chalice finally, the ritual was finished.

When we’d all come round back downstairs the first thing Dirty Jude did was put on some Dexter Wansel, a sad track called What the World Is Coming To, something that sounded like the theme tune to a soap opera that used to be broadcast in the dead hours of a Sunday afternoon, and that nobody nowadays remembered the name of.

Chantelle removed a smooth, perfectly round onyx stone from her hippy skirt then, setting it on Dirty Jude’s coffee table.

“You know what that is?2 she asked me.

“A marble?” I replied.

“It’s an onyx stone,” she corrected me, even toned. “You know what I was able to do to a man with this onyx stone?” she asked.

“I dunno…kill him?” I retorted, half joking.

“Bingo!” said Chantelle, starting to cackle.

“…What’d you do, brain him? Wing that at him and hit him between the eyes with it?!” I said, nodding at the now ominous, weaponised onyx stone.

“No…” she replied, having stopped cackling now, now serious. “No. I, we, performed a ritual, much like what you were part of upstairs there. But instead of raising a Cone of Power, we focussed our will upon that stone. And let me tell you something, Danny…Daniel…our will on that night was malevolent…infernal…malignant!”

“And…so…?” I went, feeling a knot of apprehension tighten in my guts.

“And, so,” said Chantelle, her voice taking on a tenor of someone other than herself, nearly, “and, so, we sewed it, the stone, into the cushioning of his very plush office chair, one of our number did, who was one of his secretaries, unbeknownst to him. He didn’t smoke, drank moderately, but he had done one of my ladies terrible harm, and this was something that, to him, would prove most deadly to his health, much more than the continued and dedicated pursuit of any vice…for within a fortnight, he was dead.”

“Cancer in his intestines!” shrieked Dirty Jude.

“A most deadly case,” whispered Chantelle. “The rapid metastasizing of the tumour was something, the rate of it, the oncologist said he hadn’t seen in thirty-plus years of practice…Black Magick,” she said.

“Black Magick,” repeated Dirty Jude in chilly, whispery intonations, mimicking her High Priestess.

“What you have to understand in a broader sense, Danny,” said Chantelle, “is that The Patriarchy is now on the wane, and The Feminine on the ascendant.”

“Women of the World, take over!” I quipped.

“That’s only one aspect of it. The entire spiritual ecosystem of this planet is undergoing a shift. Gaia Lives! God Is Dead! Hail Gaia!”

“God Is Dead!” squealed Dirty Jude.

“The King Is Dead, Long Live The Queen!” I said, joining in like a dick.

 

* * *

 

I spent another couple of days with Dirty Jude, screwing mostly, and the odd time we weren’t at that, I read Lady in the Van to her from out of her Alan Bennett book.

I was down to a lean nine stone with all the sex. I started getting light heads and feeling numbness in my feet. But she was insatiable.

Like this one day, I came in her house, she’s hoovering. I go mix myself a G and T, come back in the room where she’s hoovering, and she’s on the floor, wriggling around, the hoover still going. I run to her, scoop her up, thinking she’s having some kind of fit, when I realise she’s actually just having an orgasm, because I find this wee box clipped to her trousers which is wirelessly connected to a vibrator she’s got stuck in her snatch, and she’s the box set to its most powerful setting, too. As I say, even doing the housework she was at it. Just insatiable.

Then one day, we’ve been going from sun up, off and on, stopping to eat etcetera, right up till the night time. By this point it feels like I’m passing nothing but air when I cum. But when Dirty Jude cums, it’s like she’s cumming for the first time, every time, even the eighth time getting down that day. Writhing and twitching and letting wee yelps and screams out of her…big, wild, kinetic orgasms, always.

So at some point I say to her, “Y’know what, sugar cube, I’d love to know what it feels like, the female orgasm. In comparison to the man orgasm, it’s like yours, you ladies, yours is like a massive, plate shifting earthquake, while the man’s is like an insect’s sneeze.”

“I can make you know what it feels like, Darling Danny Pongo, to cum like a woman,” said Jude. “Your G-spot is located up your ass…all the way up.’
“Uh-huh…well what you did to me the other night, during that ritual, feels like you’ve popped that cherry already.”

“Nuh-uh,” she said, like a child, “not completely… Now first of all, I think we should play a little dress up before anything. What you say, love chop?”

“Let’s do it,” I said, feeling like a nauseous virgin.

Twenty minutes later, she’d me trussed up in her black satin chemise and suspenders, and I’m laid, sprawled out on her bed, smoking weed.

She comes in dressed like a mac daddy pimp, wearing a fedora up top with a feather stuck in the hatband and sporting an electric-blue pinstripe suit with bell bottom flares. She’s this weird not-quite-a-dildo thing sticking out the flies of the flares, too.

“That’s my prostate stimulator,” she said, on seeing me look at it.

What we’d agreed on before we got changed is that this would be a roleplay, and that Dirty Jude would be my pimp and I’d be one of his hos.

So she tucks the prostate stimulator back into her flares and comes over and stands by me at the side of the bed. “You got my scratch, ho?” she said, sounding like BA Baracus.

“I ain’t, daddy…weren’t no johns interested in what I got goin’ on,” I said, sounding like Officer Hooks from out of Police Academy.

At that, Dirty Jude The Pimp drew her hand back and slapped me hard up the side of the bake. I bristled, a frisson of fear and lust exciting each and every nerve ending that wound its way through me.

“Now, bitch,” said Dirty Jude, “what daddy say, when a ho don’t bring him his scratch, that he do to a ho?”

“He run a train on her?” I squeaked.

“Word. Just lucky for you but, my homeboys are out on their hustle, so just be me gon’ tap you tonight. Now go on girl, turn yo’ ass over, show daddy what he got to play with.”

“Yes, daddy,” I said, turning over onto my side, my hard-on poking out from the thong I’d on.

Dirty Jude lay down behind me, lubing me up good with her KY Jelly. She reached around then, started masturbating me slow, while with her other hand she switched on her prostate stimulator. Slowly, and with delicacy and gentleness, she entered me. I moved back into her as she began tugging on my thing quicker. Then she reached it…bullseye! the tip of her appendage bumped against my walnut and I let out a great shriek as she began wanking me even faster then.

“Harder, daddy, harder! That’s the spot, player!” I screamed.

“You gon’ cum, bitch…you gon’ cum! Cum for daddy!” huffed Dirty Jude The Pimp.

And cum I did: a big, lengthy elastic string of jissom just whipping free of me against the wall, each burst shorter and less powerful with each juddering spasm, but it felt like it would never end, and my thing looked like a baldy old man who couldn’t stop vomiting.

When I was spent, at last, I rolled over onto my back. “Woo-wee,” I sighed, exhausted.

“Now, that’s maybe given you a little bit of an insight into what it feels like to achieve the female sexual apex,” giggled Dirty Jude.

“You lucky, lucky bitches,” I laughed.

“Ah, but not so quick, love chop. For that is but one pleasure in a world of pain. Perhaps it’s because men see that our sexual fulfilment, the breadth and scope of it, is something that dwarves theirs, and so that is why they have emasculated us ladies for so long, they are jealous. Especially so, because the only way they can reach anything nearing our levels of sexual fulfilment is to let somebody penetrate them, an act their delicate little egos would never entertain!”

“Very insightful,” I said, before I took as much as I could of one of her gorgeous big tits into my gub.

“Uh-uh,” she said, gently pushing my head away.

“On guard!” I said, laughing. “What’s this: my Dirty Jude not so dirty no more? The tables have turned? It going to be Dirty Danny now, and…Demure Jude ha ha?!”

She didn’t reply though, just lay there pulling weakly at a thread coming out of those electric-blue bellbottom flares.

“This was my daddy’s get up,” she said at last. “His Dancehall Threads, he’d call them. Then he’d come home in his Dancehall Threads, smell of booze and feags on his breath and soaked up in this cheap auld polyester suit, and he’d crawl in beside me, and he’d say ‘Is my wee Jude still awake? Does wee Dirty Jude want to get daddy off?’ That was his name for me, Dirty Jude. And it stuck and I used it for myself, maybe to take the power off it, what it reminded me of: his name for me for when he was raping my little child’s body…so it became my name for me.”

She leapt from the bed, then. Tore the fedora off her head, ripped the electric-blue suit from her body, taking it between her hands and with nearly supranatural power, dredged up from some murky, whorling pit within her, tore the suit to shreds, and the shreds she gnashed at with her teeth and threw on the floor and stamped upon.

“NO MORE DIRTY JUDE!” she roared.

 

* * *

 

In the couple of months that followed, things fizzled out rapidly between us.

I still went round to see her once, twice a week, and we’d sit, talk, smoke weed, her on her red wine, me on my G and Ts, but in those months I think we got down, if memory serves, only twice, maybe three times.

Jude was different now, it went without saying. And I got the feeling she wanted rid of me too, but didn’t have the heart to tell me so, so instead would, as ways of dropping hints, put Gladys Knight and The Pips on her stereo doing Neither One of Us, that, and records like that. She was more furtive now, less extrovert. Like she’d survived a terrible war and was reluctant to talk about her experiences.

Then she texts me this Saturday morning, asks me if I want to come along to a “Meet and Greet” Chantelle’s hosting that night in the swanky and super-upmarket Merchant Hotel in town.

I thought about it, hmm’d and ha’d, but text back telling her I’d come, despite me having it in the back of my head that while it sounded like a swingers thing, it was more likely a front for some fucked up witchiness being choreographed by Chantelle and those of her ilk.

But I’d go, I thought. Out of warped curiosity and to get a night out of the house away from Danika and Sissy Francois and his evil wee Chihuahua, Francois the Second.

My instructions for the Meet and Greet were relayed to me via a text from a private number. It told me I’d to meet an individual, a black man, in the food court of Castlecourt who would hand me a key. This key I’d take to Botanic Avenue, where I’d find a PO Box, which the key would open, and where I’d find my invite.

So I made my way to Castlecourt, and I’m stood there waiting ages for this black character. I start dandering from one side of the food court to the other then, nervously chewing on a cheeseburger, not swallowing, when I get a tap on the shoulder. When I turn around it’s him, a big black man, stood towering over me. He takes a small key from, would you credit it, out from under his tongue, which he hands to me.

I tell him, garbled through a gubful of food, 2I hope you don’t expect me to give you anything outta my mouth—Its full of cheeseburger!” but the big cunt never even raised a grin, just turned around and walked away.

Next it was over to Botanic, and that was a more straightforward affair. An invite, with a beautiful velvet backing, was to be found in the PO Box that the key was for. It read, simply: “MASTER DANIEL PONGO…WE REQUEST YOUR ATTENDANCE AT OUR MEET & GREET…LOCATION – THE MERCHANT HOTEL, ROOM 270…TIME – TONIGHT, 9PM,” and it included a key card for the room, too.

I spent the rest of the evening, in the hours up till nine, wandering around town, bar hopping, ending up in The Spaniard, just around the corner, one block up, from The Merchant.

Apart from the cheeseburger, I hadn’t eaten anything all day through nerves, so was a bit skewwhiff from my bar crawl. Nine pm approached, and had I not had a few on, I’d have probably backed out at right that very minute and run back home to Danika and Sissy Francois and Francois the Second.

I left The Spaniard, buying a bag of nuts from behind the bar so as to try and soak up some of the booze.

I stood on the corner of Skipper Street then, eating the nuts, watching the folk come and go at The Merchant, wondering which ones were the Meet and Greet lot and which were just the hoi polloi out for the night.

I waited till five past nine, then went in.

The doorman nodded at me like he knew who I was, but I knew I was just being paranoid.

Inside, I made a beeline for the elevator and got on then looked to see what floor room Two-Seventy was on, which was the third floor.

I got off on three and made my way up the strange, long corridor that seemed to stretch off into infinity. I started to feel queasy, like I was experiencing vertigo or something.

I got to Room Two-Seventy. I stood before the heavy and rich looking mahogany door. From inside I could hear laughter, lots of whooping, what sounded like a bongo drum, and then something strange, animal like, or perhaps a baby’s crying, I couldn’t tell.

I tried to ignore the revellers and concentrate on the strange noise, try and pinpoint and identify it, but I couldn’t, save to say it was either a goat or a baby…maybe.

Anyway, whatever it was, it made my mind up. I pocketed the key card, thinking to myself I’d keep it as a memento of this strange time with Dirty Jude, and I turned and I returned back up that weird long hall, back the way I’d come.

I walked out of The Merchant and out of Dirty Jude’s life for good that night, too.

 

* * *

 

I wandered around for a long time then, trying to get the head straight. I ended up in The Garrick, a pub across the road from my bus stop. It was there, in the strangest twist of fate, that I met somebody who would become my now ex-wife.

It wasn’t a romance for the ages either: ended up we started talking about a poor old tramp we’d watched walk headfirst into a lamppost just down the street from where we were sitting in the outdoor smoking area.

We speculated as to whether or not he was blind, but I maintained he couldn’t have been as when he was walking by us I spied him counting change, transferring it from one hand to the other.

Anyway, we really hit it off, and after meeting then we arranged to keep in touch. For two years, three just about, everything was regular and close and warm and trusting but never transcended the purely and genuinely platonic.

Till after a party one night it did. And not long after that we moved in together.

And it was one week into our living together a most, most peculiar thing happened: big Baldy, the faceless demon that had manifested next to Dirty Jude’s bed that night, appeared in our kitchen doorway.

I yelped, then leapt, straight up into the air, up off our sofa.

I saw him, sure as sure, for a split second, a sliver of a full actual second, but still just long enough to take the big cunt in, and know it was the very self-same one, big Baldy No-Face.

I rolled a spliff and we smoked it, and after I’d relaxed I told my then girlfriend, now ex-wife, all about it, about Dirty Jude, Chantelle, the demons, the ritual, everything.

And in telling her the story and in getting to finishing it, I arrive finally at the night in The Merchant, when I ran back up the hall toward the elevators to leave, having chickened out of the “Meet and Greet”. I’m waiting for the elevator to arrive, watching the dial above the doors slide along from the ground floor to the third, and I can hear, from down the lift shaft, much malevolent cackling, men and women, coming up from below me there, like demons down in hell they sounded like, and then I see a sign right next to the elevator. The sign reads: THESE LIFTS ARE NOT TO BE USED AS A MEANS OF ESCAPE.

And I read something into that sign, like it was giving me a sign…a sign within a sign.

So I used the stairs instead.

And ever since, I always took it to mean that the sign was telling me to use the stairs and not the elevator, because maybe Dirty Jude or Chantelle were on it, and when they got out and saw me, they’d have dragged me to this weird and sinister gathering and after that my life would’ve taken an uglier, more dangerous turn.

But then, that night, with my then girlfriend, now ex-wife, the appearance of Baldy said to me that maybe that sign meant something else…THESE LIFTS ARE NOT TO BE USED AS A MEANS OF ESCAPE…that maybe it was more an omen, an omen that told me escape was unlikely, and that that which I had to escape from was something far more baneful, and far more insidious, than words could tell.

 

 

Bio: Richard Barr lives & writes in Belfast and has had several stories published in the last few years, including in Lancaster University’s The Luminary, The Big Issue and The Scum Gentry Alterative Arts & Media. This last year he’s been published in Phantasmagoria Magazine and The Honest Ulsterman.

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