This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
Calling Mona home under the pretense that Danja needed her was a crappy thing to do, but Moe reasoned he had good grounds. Still, Mona was furious. The kind of gut-wrenching angry that starts in your labonza and cuts right through to your scalp. He figured he would pour on the charm later and try to get Mona to forgive him. His chances of succeeding were probably fifty-fifty.
“To hell with you, Moe Gafferson! You’ve got a lot of crust taking advantage of me like this,” she blazed. “I left my shift early for this!” Her fists were clenched and propped on her hips. They tightened even more as she spoke, like she was readying for a bout of boxing. What they said about redheads was one-hundred-percent true, at least for this dame. She was just upset enough to take a swing at him. Moe took a couple steps back.
“Mona, baby, I had no choice.”
“Don’t Mona-baby-me, you lousy, yellowbellied scoundrel. You had me worried to death, and all just so you could sneak out of here!”
“There’s more to it than that, doll, I swear.” Moe rushed toward the front door before she could take a breath and really lay into him. He stopped long enough to take a stab at smoothing the waters. “I don’t have time to explain. Just trust me this one last time.”
Her shoulders relaxed, and Moe took it as a good sign. “Whatever you do,” he continued. “Don’t let Danja out of your sight. Sit on her if you have to.”
He stole one last look at Mona as the door closed behind him. Her face flamed, her lips thinned, and her eyes spiraled daggers in his direction. She was one fired up tamale. But even in her anger there was a certain brazen sensuality to her that surprised Moe, inflamed him. He looked forward to making up with her. If she’d let him.
For now, Moe refused to let Mona, or anything about her, keep him from doing what he had to do. He needed to replace his smashed up Brownie with a brand-spanking-new camera. Karl Boch was hosting a party tonight, the kind of party that could make great newsreel for his opponent in the upcoming election. Some might call it blackmail. Moe preferred to think of it as insurance – insurance for himself, for Dutch, and for Danja Bittners. There was no way Moe was sending a kitten like Danja back into the hands of a man like Karl Boch. Boch may have her conned into believing she had no options, but Moe knew better.
Moe came out of Montgomery Ward’s with a Baby Brownie Special and some 127 film. It cost him a buck twenty-five, but it was worth it. It was a beaut of a camera.
Councilman Boch lived in Glendale, a suburb for the wealthy. The streets were lined with maples and oaks, and the homes fought for a place in architectural history. Boch lived in an elegant Queen Ann-Victorian mansion, built sometime before 1900, and situated on a prime corner lot. The scream sheets had photographed the place so many times it was nearly a regular feature.
During daylight hours, Moe’s old Buick trolling up and down Glendale would look as out of place as a baseball in a curio cabinet, so he parked on a side street and made the hike through the neighborhood. This trip was just to get a feel for the lay of the land.
Boch’s mansion was a two-story joint, situated on the back half of the property and overloaded with windows. Just the way Moe liked it for his line of work. An unattached garage, painted the same red as the house, sat at the end of a cement driveway. The driveway was gated, most likely electronic. A six-foot wrought-iron fence encased the entire home. Luckily, on the back east corner, Moe found an oak with a branch droopy enough that, later, would help him over the fence. For now, he just walked around and made like a tourist, oohing and ahhing from all angles the divine architecture of the house.
He ambled back to his Buick with a plan sketched out in his mind: after the sun went down, he would park across the street from Boch’s mansion. Cars would be coming and going, thanks to the party, and a beat up Buick would practically fade into the darkness. Visitors arriving at the doorstep would also keep attention away from the perimeter of the property, or at least Moe hoped so. He’d climb the oak and drop down on the other side. The rest of the evening would be spent rubbernecking into those huge Victorian windows. With any luck, Moe would get snapshots worthy of front page news.
With a couple hours to kill, Moe drove back to his regular stomping grounds. Even though Glendale was touted for being as pristine as bleached summer whites, Moe felt cleaner back on Gilbert Avenue.
Moe stopped off at Joe’s Diner. His belly told him there was a roast beef sandwich waiting there with his name on it, and Moe figured he could catch a little news while he was chowing. He was right about the sandwich – chunks of beef, roasted to perfection, went down like it was prepared for a king. Unfortunately, the broadcast news centered on the inner circle of politicians looking for re-election. Boch figured prominently. It left a bad taste.
The late dinner crowd began to fill the booths. Moe sat and sipped coffee until seven o’clock. He scooted from the stool, left Joe a nice tip, and walked out onto the downtown streets. The sun was low in the sky. It was time to return to Glendale.
Evening traffic in Cincinnati could be counted to be one of two things: congested or a complete standstill. Moe had a magnificent view of the sunset. Unfortunately, it was while he was still twenty minutes away from Glendale and behind a line of thirty cars all turning his way. He loaded film into his new Brownie, stashed the extra rolls in his glove compartment, and checked and then rechecked his roscoe while waiting through one red light after another. Dusk had yawned and went to bed by the time he finally rolled onto Boch’s street. He had no idea what time the little soiree was due to start, but by the looks of the crowded driveway, Moe had arrived fashionably late.
He turned the corner and found the parking spot close to the oak he planned to put to use. The houses were far enough apart that no house lights shined directly on his Buick. The dark hid the rust spots that made his car scream “jalopy.”
Moe walked along the sidewalk until he was sure no one was watching. He checked his roscoe and his Brownie – both were secure in his pockets – and leapt up onto the lowest branch in the tree. He scooted along a heavy branch sidesaddle, and readied to drop to the ground.
But just as he swung one leg over to make the jump, he spotted a couple of boys packing heat. Moe froze, his feet dangling and his hands clutching the thick branch.
The goons were dressed in dark suits and had typewriters with thirty-round magazines slung over their shoulders – heavy artillery for a friendly neighborhood. Moe held his breath and tried not to move. If Boch was using security with tommy guns, the councilman meant business.
The pair stopped several feet from Moe’s tree. Moe glanced back and wondered if he could get to his car before the shooting started. He looked at the two goons again. If there was only one, Moe could probably take him. Or if they had less lethal firepower. But no way could he beat them both. His only chance was to hope they didn’t look up.
They lit cigarettes and bullshitted about their assignment
“How long we gotta keep circling the place, Al? I could use a brew.”
“Can it, Gus. You’ll get your sauce. Later.”
Gus gnawed at his cigarette, not really smoking it, and checked the magazine on his gun. “Same crowd here tonight?”
“Looks that way.” Al took a long drag off his cigarette and then flicked it away. “C’mon. We don’t want the boss catching us taking a break.”
Gus took a couple hurried puffs and then dropped the cancer stick at his feet, stamping it out with the heel of his boot. “Fuck, he’d string us out for sure.”
Moe waited until their shadows were long gone before he let himself breathe again. He dropped out of the tree and crouched low to the ground. He would have to keep an ear out. Al and Gus would make snooping around the windows a lot harder.
Luckily, Boch had made good use of landscaping. Trees plagued the property, giving Moe cover as he serpentined toward the house. A smattering of windows were dimly lit, but all of them had draperies. Draperies pulled so tight together that Moe couldn’t see a thing, let alone point a camera. He circled the house, ducking between bushes and behind trees, and found the same thing on the other side: massive windows, but all blocked by curtains.
That left him with one option. He had to find a way inside.
Moe retraced his steps, jiggling windows that had no lights and avoiding those that did. He came up empty until, just for kicks, he followed a concrete sidewalk that led to a side door. The outer screen door was latched, but the inner door was cracked open. Moe pulled out a penknife and, with the open blade, lifted up the hook and eased it out of the eye. It made a small tinkling sound. He glanced around, checking for Al and Gus. Boch’s boys were no where in sight. With the coast clear, he opened the screen and shoved past the inside door.
Inside was a small mudroom – farm sink with an oversized basin on one side, a potter’s bench on the other. Beyond the mudroom was a corridor with dark mahogany ceiling and side panels. From a kitchen off to the left, Moe heard the banging of pots, the baritone voice of a man lauding the praises of russet potatoes for a hot potato salad, and the giggling voice of a female.
The right corridor was longer, with low-key lighting. Moe stepped into it and followed it to its end. A heavy door, made from the same mahogany as the hallway, was closed. There was nowhere else to go. Moe pushed it open a crack. The room beyond was a brightly lit, grand dining room with a built-in buffet and a large, Chippendale-style table and chairs. But the eye-catcher in the ornate room was an intricately designed stained-glass-window depicting scenes from ancient Rome: Bacchus in a vineyard; toga clad men, laurels wrapped around their heads, with nearly naked women groveling at their feet; and Venus, playing with her boy Cupid. Moe shook his head. One man’s pornography was another man’s art.
The room was empty, but recently so. The table still showed remnants of a concluded meal. Moe figured servants would be making their way in to finish the clean up any minute. He had no choice but to take a risk. He slipped into the dining room and rushed to another hallway opposite. The passageway took him towards the front of the house. As he neared a pair of paneled doors, he heard classical music whining from a Victrola. Moe stopped and waited to hear voices chinning politics, dishing dirt, or maybe a few poker game rants. Instead, there was just the music and an occasional soft moan.
As Moe inched toward the door, other sounds became clear: grunts, groans, and slapping flesh – the distinct kind of slapping heard only from a four-legged frolic. He peeked into the room and nearly had to sew his jaw back into place. Scenes like this could only be seen at movie houses. And even then, only a movie house opened after midnight and featuring stag films.
French antique furniture had been shoved toward the walls, forming a periphery that resembled Conestoga wagons circled for an attack. At the front of the room sat the lone piece of furniture still in play: a throne the likes of which only the pope or a king would own, decorated with mother-of-pearl inlay, elaborately carved with Empire style lions beneath the arm-rests, and polished to a high sheen.
Sitting on the throne, without a stitch of clothes, was Karl Boch. Everything about his lean, naked body was firm – the hard line of his jaw, the honed muscles of his abdomen – everything, that is, except the flaccid bit of manflesh between his legs. It hung soft, like a sock on a clothesline.
On one side of the room stood a row of men, two of which Moe recognized from the poker game, all of whom were naked. On the other side of the room, as if preparing for a sexually perverted game of Red Rover, stood a line of girls, equally nude. Every one of them was blonde.
In the center of the room came the source of the grunts and groans echoing in the hallway. The pair was sprawled on the huge Aubusson rug: an older, paunchy gentleman exchanging a bit of hard for a bit of soft with a mouse barely old enough to be wearing nylons. The man’s mouth gaped open and his face shined with sweat. Her legs pointed straight up into the air, and he held her by the ankles. As he pumped into the girl, he breathed like an old Ford with a leaky head gasket. Every pair of eyes was glued to the duo.
Moe would have snapped a picture, but the only good angle was towards the fuckers on the rug, and neither one of them was Boch. Any kind of a good shot was going to have to come from a better watchtower. The only option was to drop to the floor, duck behind the furniture, and crawl into the room. With the furniture shoved against the walls, he had plenty of hiding places. He set his sights for a 19th century Provencal settee, upholstered in a lush red. It’s high back, low seat, and short legs would make a great screen. Other than a short gap between the settee and a hunt board with a polished, black slate top, his route was completely screened from the party.
Moe quickly ducked inside the room and crouched behind a sofa. He crawled around to the hunt board and stopped. The gap to the settee was short, but wide open. If they weren’t paying attention, he could cross the gap unseen. But if they were looking the wrong way at the wrong time …
As if on cue, the old geezer gave a whale of a yell and Moe scooted behind the settee. He scrunched down between the wall and the small couch and took the opportunity to take a much-needed deep breath. He’d gone unnoticed and apparently, the old man’s yell had been the finale of the show. The old boy pulled out his shriveling meat and a round of applause ensued. Not a Ted Williams-homer kind of applause but a stuffy, thank-you-for-that-nice-harpsichord-solo kind of applause. Moe pulled his camera from his pocket and wound the film. He snapped a picture, making sure to include Boch perched on his throne in the background. Moe hoped there was enough light to make up for the lack of a flash.
The geezer shuffled up to Boch and said a few words that Moe couldn’t hear. Boch nodded his head, and the old boy made his way out the door, passing close to Moe’s hiding spot. The man looked familiar, and then it hit Moe. The line of dirty politicians was getting longer. The old geezer was the other councilman in the Cincinnati Enquirer shot with Lindbergh and Boch.
Moe glanced back at the party. The men were lined up in order of age – oldest to youngest. Apparently, age was rewarded in this game. Each man sported an erection. The younger men’s roaring jacks were free willing – hard, ruby-headed, and supported by nothing but their libidos. Most of the older guys needed a hands-on approach to maintain their stiffies. Karl Boch remained unaffected and limp.
In contrast, the women stood almost zombie-like, with vacant eyes that reminded Moe of Danja at the poker game. The gal who’d just been fucked joined her sisters, standing calmly in line, semen spilling down her legs.
Boch nodded towards the men, and the next man approached the throne. He was one of Boch’s poker buddies, flabbier than the young studs in line, his hair graying at the temples. His naked ass jiggled as he kneeled down at Boch’s feet. Boch watched stonily as the man pressed his lips to the tops of Boch’s feet.
The men marched up to Boch one by one, each one planting a kiss on the faux-king’s feet before Boch waved him away without a word. Once he was granted leave, each man made his way down the line of women to choose a mate. Before choosing, the men tested the girls by grabbing and twisting a tit, or pawing their pussies, or rubbing an erection in their tangle of pubic hair. It reminded Moe of a cattle auction.
After everyone had paired off, each couple found a niche on the Aubusson rug. They knelt side-by-side, with eyes facing forward like a room full of school children. One lone dame remained in line beside the throne. Boch motioned for her to come forward, and she obeyed. She knelt before him and kissed his feet, just as the men had done. When she stood, her arms were stretched out to the side, and her feet were apart, as if aping an airplane. She slowly turned, three hundred and sixty degrees, while Boch and the others looked on.
Moe was so wrapped up in the action, he nearly forgot why he was there. He focused his brownie on the naked girl and punched the button.
When she had finished her exhibition, Boch nodded and the quail walked over to the corner where a burled, three-door armoire filled the space. She opened its doors and removed a mahogany box the size of a bread basket. She carried the box to a side table near the Victrola. She left the box long enough to replace the LP on the Victrola. New music began to build. The girl moved back to the mahogany box. She opened its lid, but Moe couldn’t make out its contents beyond a purple velvet lining. Her body swayed with the music – slow, gradual, and rhythmic.
She began to remove things from the box. First, a cruet – half full of a clear liquid. Next, came a white cloth that favored a man’s handkerchief. And finally, she lifted out the coup de grâce – a leather belt with a large ivory phallus attached.
The music played on and every so often another instrument was added to the orchestra’s rhythm, gradually building towards crescendo. Moe didn’t know much about classical music – he preferred the jazz sounds of Count Basie or Duke Ellington – but he had to admit there was something about this particular tune that had his blood pumping. A quick glance at the couples proved they were affected as well. Apparently, it was the girls’ responsibility now to keep the pricks hard. Their fingers stroked the erections, fumbling, squeezing, and caressing. The men in turn searched and found the intimate spots of the girls. They were primed and ready, but no one took the next step.
In contrast, Boch was still laden with a dominie-do-little and two dry balls. The girl carefully lifted the fake dong over her head and held it high for everyone to see.
Moe had heard of this kind of thing – a pixie who couldn’t get it up unless his blowhole was plugged – but he’d never been an eye witness before. Taking pictures of a fairy with a bone in his ass wasn’t Moe’s idea of a lot of fun, but it was the kind of picture that would be worth a lot of gold.
The blond Jane carried the phallus to Boch. He ran his hands over the rounded head of the ivory tusk and down along its length, masturbating it in time with the music. Moe nabbed another picture. Boch stood up, and Moe expected him to assume the hound dog position. But instead he took up the same airplane pose that the dame had adopted earlier: arms outstretched and feet apart. As the music built to its crest, the blonde wrapped the belt around Boch’s hips and fastened the leather buckle. The horde of partakers cheered. Boch stood proudly with the ivory dildo jutting out from his crotch, and he raised his hands high in the air like a Roman god in front of his mortal disciples.
The female assistant had worked her way over to the table with the handkerchief and cruet. Boch gained his fill of the cheering accolades and finally sat back down on his throne. He spread his legs lewdly. The crowd roared again. One of Boch’s nuts hung below the edge of the dildo like a misplaced goiter. Moe focused the viewfinder and snapped the shot.
Boch turned his head toward the girl and nodded. She slowly walked over to him, carrying the last two items from the box, and placed the cruet into Boch’s outstretched hand. He fingered the tiny bottle like a lover and finally opened it. He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply, and then tipped it over the dildo. Oil drizzled down its bone-colored sides. Together, Boch and the blonde worked at spreading the oil over the full length and breadth of the dildo. When they finished, Boch took the handkerchief, wiped his hands, and then tossed it to the floor. The chit rubbed the oil from her hands onto her cunt until her pubic hair glistened and her fat lips shined.
Boch reached for the girl. She spread her arms as if on a crucifix, and he lifted her into the air. He held her straddled above him, and she spread her legs. Then little-by-little, with his arm muscles straining, Boch lowered her onto the ivory. The fake cock forced open her cunny lips. When only half of the dildo had disappeared inside her, drums were suddenly added to the music’s orchestra, pounding and beating and thumping out the rhythm. The couples took up the beat, clapping their hands in time, over and over. The volume rose. Sweat dribbled down the blonde’s back and her legs shook. And Boch held her still, the white dong half inside.
A syncopated beat crossed up the clapping, and the men and women suddenly froze. The music stopped. Every eye focused on the girl poised above the ivory shaft.
Finally Boch released his hold and let her drop. Her guttural shriek pierced the room. Immediately, the couples began to copulate. Fucking like rabbits in a time warped Roman orgy. The music pounded louder than ever.
The girl fell limp as a sock. Boch cackled, thrusting into her comatose body, supporting her with his pasty, muscular arms. The ivory cock streaked with blood.
Moe was out of film and pumped full of gall. He crouched as low as he could get, scooted past the hunt table, and out into the hallway. The smell of sex followed him like a pigheaded posse.
He raced down the hallway toward the dining room. A quick peek around the door showed the dinner table completely clean and the lights turned down. Moe counted his lucky stars and slipped through the room into the back corridor. Everything was quiet. All except the faint sound of the Victrola behind him. He rushed back to the mudroom and out into the cool night, thankful to breathe in its clear, crisp air.
Moe had lived a long time in his thirty years, been around a lot of seedy people, but nothing compared to the evil that lived inside that house. The curdling scream of the girl as she was brutally impaled still rang in Moe’s ears.
The moon and the stars were hidden behind clouds, making it darker than most nights but lessening the chance of shadows. Moe glanced around for Al and Gus, but they were nowhere to be seen. He considered just making a run for it but decided to wait until the Bobbsey Twins passed by on their roundabout. He did his best to blend into the side of the house, letting his pounding heart tick off the seconds. The longer he waited, the more his gut told him to run. After twenty minutes, he decided to listen to his gut and headed off toward the corner of the lot.
He reached the oak and realized it would be a little harder to climb it from this side of the fence. He jumped up, grabbed onto the lowest branch, flung his leg up and worked to right himself. He was almost there when he heard the voice behind him.
“Hey, Mack, we don’t like monkeys in our trees.”
“Yeah, we don’t like monkeys,” echoed either Al or Gus. It was hard to remember who was who.
Moe contemplated diving over the fence and taking his chances of getting to his car, but a wrought-iron fence didn’t offer much hope for bullet-proofing, especially if those bullets were coming from a tommy gun at the speed of sound. He was good and caught, and he knew it. So, he did the only thing he could do. He stashed the brownie in the crook of the branch and dropped down. Any luck of taking out one of the thugs was gone when they stepped back a couple of feet as he hit the ground.
Moe stood upright and brushed the dirt off his hands. He flashed them what he hoped was a let’s-be-pals smile. “So, either of you boys got a light?” he asked.
Rough Cut originally appeared in Ruthie’s Club http://www.ruthiesclub.com/
Copyright © 2004 by Desdmona.