Chapter 9
When she was in a proper state of mind to think straight, Rita quickly realized there were flaws in her arrangement, the chief obstacle being Mervyn Stone, whom she had completely overlooked in her excitement. Mike was reluctant to leave right away. He wanted money in his jeans before going home. So Rita had problems. Stone was in Coventry, but she expected him back on the Friday. Of course she had to tell Mike. He was furious. He didn't mind Matt knocking her off, or even Caufield if she felt she owed the bastard something. But who the hell was Mervyn Stone? What was she, a stripper—or a bloody prostitute?
A shouting match developed, followed by an ultimatum. Rita backed down. She had nothing against Mervyn, but— On the night he returned from Coventry she tried to let him down lightly, but when he argued she deliberately antagonized him, eventually provoking a quarrel that ended with Stone packing his things and storming out of the apartment. Mike promptly moved in, on a purely temporary basis. He got a job in a hotel, and for the next two weeks spent the days washing dishes and the nights with Rita. Caufield was currently fully occupied with a new girl and kept away from the apartment. It was inevitable that he learned about Mike sharing Rita's pad, but his interests were elsewhere and he wasn't particularly concerned.
It was equally inevitable that Mike's strong personality clashed with Rita's stubborn disposition. She was willfully defiant and fanatically jealous, and their relationship was often stormy. But Rita was happy. The fact that Mike frequently borrowed money from her wasn't important. She didn't mind his obsession with gambling. It was only when he came home stoned that they quarreled.
The prospect of Matt's return from New York disturbed Rita. Matt knew about Caufield, and Stone was out of the way, but he couldn't be expected to tolerate another intruder. Rita didn't want to hurt Matt but was determined to cling on to Mike whatever the cost.
The immediate problem was dramatically solved when Mervyn Stone showed up one night, stinking drunk and in an aggressive, lecherous mood. Mike was working overtime. Stone was savagely resentful, having found out about Mike. Rita tried to humor him, but couldn't persuade him to leave. He wanted to fuck her, and wasn't too slewed to get a hard-on. Eventually his persistent mauling aroused Rita's sexual instincts and she became so incensed she was agreeable to anything. They finished up shagging in the lounge with Rita draped over the sofa arm with her dress up round her neck and her panties on the floor, Mervyn attempting to screw his corpulent prick into her from behind. He was just getting into his stroke when Mike let himself in.
Rita had forgotten Mike in her wild frenzy. He naturally thought she had lied about squeezing Stone out, and a slugging match developed with Mervyn hopelessly on the losing end. Rita became rattled and hysterical, allowed her vindictive nature to dominate reason—she abused Mike until he slapped her down hard, so hard she passed out. When she came round Stone was snoring on the floor, his face like raw liver, and Mike had gone.
Three days passed with no word from him. When Rita called the hotel they told her he had quit his job. She was frantic. But that was just the beginning of the rot. A week later Mervyn was dead, crushed under his car when it ran off the road near Honiton. There had been no news from Matt, no indication of his plans.
With Mike's abrupt departure the bottom dropped right out of Rita's sordid world. The fact that her blind stupidity was responsible ate at her like a festering sore. She was continually sullen, angry and bored. When Caufield began pestering her again she told him to go to hell. She was utterly disillusioned, still waiting for the promised break to materialize, gradually accepting the fact that she would never be anything but a stripper. She bitterly resented the depressing truth.
Then, on the Tuesday, she received another severe jolt. She left the club during the interval to grab a bite to eat. Her performances of late had been so indifferent nobody cared whether she showed up or not. Only Caufield's persistence prevented her from being fired. As she crossed the street she saw a news placard, and the startling announcement turned her guts over: DIRECTOR OF BRENT HOLDINGS ACCUSED OF EMBEZZLEMENT.
Brent Holdings was Matt's company. Rita bought a paper. Glaring headlines confirmed her worst fears-MATTHEW BRENT INDICTED IN UNITED STATES. HELD FOR TRIAL IN NEW YORK. Her brain seething, Rita read on. She had always assumed Matt was British. The newspaper account revealed he was actually an American citizen, although most of his adult life had been spent in England.
Rita returned to the club in a daze. It was the last straw, the final cruel let-down. Her ambition was dead, cold as the certainty she was wasting her time parading her meat for the pleasure of gaping morons. Balls to men. They were all lying, deceitful bastards. If she had to exploit her body she might as well get something more out of it than the pin-money Tony Carlotti paid her. There was no percentage in stripping—she had learned that much. Fuck Tony, and fuck Caufield. Fuck the whole stinking business.
Caufield showed up at the club that evening. Rita waited for him in the dismal dressing-room, refusing to go on. When he came up, fuming and bellyaching, she told him straight-stuff the bloody job. She was quitting-and this time she wasn't coming back.
The next day she moved out of the apartment and rented a much smaller, cheaper place in Bayswater. She had no immediate pressing money problems. Her future was as vague as the past few months had been eventful, but she could get by for a couple of weeks. After that— She just didn't give a damn.
The Bayswater district was notorious as a prostitute's paradise. Rita encountered a certain hostility from suspicious whores who saw her as a rival, but in the harsh light of reality her impulsive decision to hawk her mutton wavered, and it was assumed she presented no threat. For a while she remained aloof and disinterested, wary of contacts. Then she found a real friend in big, uncouth Hilda McCready, an overweight but still attractive creature with flaming red hair and a fiendish temper, a product of the Gorbals district of Glasgow. Hilda held the whole breed of men generally in contempt. She had no scruples. Men were pigs, she declared, and, as such, there to be exploited. A standing prick had no conscience, so why should she harbor any? Although not yet twenty-five she looked forty, and her formidable physique gained her a certain grudging respect.
Rita liked her, and spent a lot of time in Hilda's company since the redhead was sympathetic to Rita's problems. They often spent the night together either at Hilda's pad or Rita's squalid two-room den, whenever business was slack and Hilda had time on her hands. After the first time it was obvious to Rita that Hilda was as much dyke as prostitute, especially when she had a skinful of booze. The discovery didn't deter Rita. When Hilda suggested that they share her larger apartment Rita moved in without hesitation, and was glad of the older woman's company. It didn't bother her that Hilda brought men home at all hours. Rita often lay awake and listened to them performing in the next room. Hilda always had money. She paid the rent, paid for groceries, everything. All she asked in return was "understanding", somebody of her own sex to talk to and go down on when she sickened of the odors of male flesh.
She swilled gin by the quart, and whenever she'd been drinking became maudlin. She pestered Rita continually to turn pro. But somehow the role of street-walker didn't appeal to Rita. She tried to convince herself that she despised men, that she was through with them, but one evening when she felt particularly low she helped herself to some of Hilda's gin, and woke up in the early hours to find a big west country farmer stroking a formidable length of hard cock into her. It was the first taste of prick she'd had since Mike walked out, and so enjoyable she forgot to resist. By the time the yokel got through her resolve was shattered and her cunt shagged raw. She fell asleep with the farmer's joint in her fist. When she awoke he'd gone, leaving a couple of bills tucked into the cleavage of her tits. A real comedian.
That was the start. The next night Hilda brought two drunken Scots guardsmen back with her. Both were loaded. Rita slept with the youngest. She never even learned his name—he was just a hard prick in the dark. She went to the John. When she got back he'd spewed all over the bed. She left him lying in it and sneaked into Hilda's room, found the redhead still at it, sitting on the military prick with her flabby tits jogging up and down and her great cow arse squashing against his gut.
After that, Rita just drifted, never quite overcoming a deep-rooted aversion to screwing for money, often softening the ordeal by imagining the fat prick thrashing into her was Mike's incomparable tool, at other times responding with all the old fire and enthusiasm. But mostly her heart wasn't in it.
Rita drew the curtains aside. Sunlight streamed into the dingy room. She sighed. Hilda hadn't come home the previous night. Rita lit a cigarette. She felt acutely depressed. She ran a comb through her hair, smoothed the short, tight frock over her hips. It was all she had on apart from French-style panties and stiletto-heeled white shoes. No bra or stockings. She went out, down the stairs and out onto the street. There was an autumn chill in the air, already a hint of gold in the foliage of stately trees lining the approach to the quiet park and gardens opposite, just off the main road. Peace and beauty contrasted with crowded confusion.
It was relaxing in the spacious park. A broad drive divided well-maintained lawns. Rita walked leisurely. Curled leaves were drifting. When a car approached, moving slowly, she moved closer to the verge. The driver, a big Negro, spoke to her but she ignored him—until she recognized Dominic, one of Hilda's regular callers. When he offered her money, Rita shrugged, and accepted it, got into the car. Dominic drove on, grinning, his thick lips clamped round a fat cigar. He wasn't more than twenty, but looked older. He parked in a convenient lay-by, near some bushes. Rita felt neither desire nor excitement—merely boredom—as she followed him into the shrubbery.
Dominic flipped the cigar away. The moment the road was screened he pushed Rita down on the ground and pinned her down, clamped his mouth over hers, his thick tongue probing. She could feel his penis pulsing against her thigh. His breath reeked of rum. Rita lay back, relaxing, but experienced a swift flicker of lust when a black hand slid inside her frock and cupped a bare tit. Instinctively she thrust the nipple against his palm, groped for the ridged outline of his cock. Dominic chuckled, jerked his fly undone, and swore when Rita's fingers curled round his rearing prick. It was stubby, very thick. She eased the foreskin back and compressed the fat roll just behind the glans. Suddenly she was desperate for sex.
Her frock was lifted. A rough hand slid along her thigh and inside the loose leg of her panties, closing on soft, squirming flesh. She opened her legs and the hand delved lower, into the crease of her arse. She raised up, and a finger stabbed her sweaty arsehole. She tugged Dominic's pants widely open, felt past the roots of his cock into the warm recess below his wrinkled scrotum. The rising odor of his potent masculinity aroused all her dormant instincts, and she squirmed down to curl her tongue around the straining head of his prick, traced the hot tip rapidly up and down the expanding roll, and finally enclosed the knob with her mouth.
Dominic linked both hands behind her head and fucked his bloating stalk to the back of her throat with such savage intensity she twisted away, choking. Dominic promptly thrust her down, flipped her frock up and tugged impatiently until he had her panties down past her knees. Rita eased her arse from the ground to facilitate their removal. Dominic gazed at her inviting quim, touched it, extended his neck to lick the ruddy gash. His mouth squashed the thickened folds and his tongue swept from her anus to the fissure of her quivering cunt, then over her convulsing mound and into the black bush that reached almost to her navel.
Presently, he wanted her to turn over and, when she complied, raised her frock and crouched with his face close to her arse, staring at the rounded cheeks. Eventually he forced her hips together and formed a deeply accentuated cleft into which he chafed his hard prick. He seemed content to maul and probe her bottom, but Rita, wanting relief, reached between her thighs, brought his groping cock to her quim, crammed the swollen knob into the wet split, and uttered a frantic squeal when Dominic wrapped both arms round her hips and, lifting her bodily, rocked backward, sprawling on his arse and simultaneously dropping her onto his skewering prick. The thick root penetrated deeply. Her buttocks smacked against his pelvis and the zipper on his gaping fly ground painfully into her flesh, but she ignored discomfort and shagged briskly up and down, her tits flopping, breath gusting jerkily.
Dominic just lay there, his black fingers compressing her arse cheeks as he watched the squashing play of the contorting ovals, immune to Rita's blurted demands for assistance, allowing her to impale herself until the rising sperm sucking from his heavy balls was seething in the distended pipe of his stubby cock and Rita thrashed about with eyes closed and the rapturous heat of impending orgasm spreading into the torrid maw of her quim. Then he shifted his hands to the fronts of her thighs and held her down on his spurting tool.
Rita crouched with her vagina alternately flexing then relaxing round the pumping prick. As she leaned forward the twitching mass of flesh and gristle sucked out and cool air circulated round her arse and pouting cunt. She crawled to a patch of lush grass and flaked out. Dominic, grinning sardonically, lit two cigarettes and gave one to Rita. When he didn't confine his penis, she knew he wasn't finished. After a few drags at the cigarette, he conveyed her hand to his drooping roll and she frigged him enthusiastically while he dropped his pants and eventually hauled them off, breaking contact. Rita lifted his shirt. He wore nothing underneath. His thickening penis jutted belligerently. He mouthed curt instructions, and Rita turned on her side.
Dominic dragged her frock up again. He fondled her arse, concentrating on the brown rut of her anus and whacking his cock repeatedly into the damp groove. When he rubbed his knob in her slimy vagina, Rita pushed against his groin; but it was her arse he wanted to fuck, and he merely dabbled his knob in the warm residue of her saturated minge before attempting to force it into the ruddy pit, grunting, agreeably surprised, when the aperture yielded substantially with his initial thrust. Encouraged, his resolve stiffened and he rammed harder, spreading her buttocks grossly apart to reveal the puckered hole and the butting exertions of his cock. His foreskin formed a grayish ridge against the spongy rim, straining briefly, then entering soggily to be hotly engulfed.
Rita drew her knees up almost to her chin and endured a series of ferocious lunges; but the worst was over and she released her pent breath while sharp thrills surged up and down her curved spine and exhilaration branched from her distended anus into her bowels and glistening cunt. The fierce restriction lessened appreciably as the aperture expanded, and very soon the dull ache was gone, the buggering prick tightly gripped but moving freely. Rita dug her fingers into the ground, continually seeking fresh purchase for her sliding feet. She had lost her shoes when the action started and her bare toes curled into the sod.
But it was nearly over. Dominic battered his tool a fraction deeper, and Rita clutched her cunt as flowing semen was compressed torridly into her rectum. A great shudder passed through her when Dominic withdrew. He watched greenish-white gobs escape the brimming arsehole and slide down into the dark hair.
Rita twisted to a sitting position. Her face was crimson with effort. A wisp of steamy vapor rose from the brown-stained knob of Dominic's tremendously inflamed penis. He got to his feet, shook sperm drops from the slackening roll, grimacing at the soreness.
"Next time have some goddamn jelly handy," he grumbled. "You've got a sweet arse, Irish. I thought Hilda was bigger than most, but she can't take it up her arsehole the way you can. Don't leave town, honey—I'll be lookin' out for you."
He laughed, picked up his pants, hauled them on, and zipped his fly as he turned toward his car. Rita, searching for her shoes among the bushes, heard the motor start, the squeal of tires as he drove away.