Tags- MF, group, interracial, oral, romance, exhib, voy, casual polyamory. WARNING- murders and violence.
Intro- This story is fictional and meant for mature open minds. Please do not read it if you object to graphic sex featuring the tags listed above. Or if you have issues reading about extreme violence with just punishment of the offenders, some fantasy elements, and vigilante heroism in cooperation with law enforcement. Overall, this story is a police procedural thriller with some erotic sex scenes.
This work is connected to many of my previous stories. "Inside Out" and "Debrief" are good backstories featuring many of the same characters. I have also endeavored to make this work read well on its own. For ideas not my own in this story- "Mack the Knife" is a classic song about a London criminal first composed in the 1920s by Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht. Queen owns the song "We are the Champions". London's Gargoyles Clan were created by Greg Weisman and are owned by Disney- they appear in this work as allies of the heroes. The pirates Pintel & Ragetti are also owned by Disney. All other characters in this story are my original creations. Lord Jim Kurtz, Igor Ivanov, Viola Nostromo, Inspector Willard Marlow, Axel Heyst, and Jessie Marlow Kurtz are all inspired by the writings of Joseph Conrad, one of the greatest authors of all time. Ford Maddox was the name of his frequent collaborator. I created these characters as homage. Doug Ramsay and his associates are recurring heroes in my works based on myself and people I have known. The real life celebrities mentioned in this story are all parallel universe versions of the actual people, impersonated poorly. This entire story was written for entertainment purposes only.
If you or someone you know is in an abusive relationship, or under violent threat, I encourage you to get help by whatever means necessary. Good luck.
Positive or constructive feedback on all my works is appreciated.
***
London, England. Winter 2001.
Rovers Swingers Club.
"Why is that woman crying?"
The bartender shrugged in response to his employer's question. "I don't know. If she wants to tell me, she will. I don't want to upset her by asking."
"Fair enough," Ford Maddox said.
You could get in a lot of trouble trying to get close to a crying woman anywhere, he reflected, especially in a place like Rovers. It was an on-premises sex exhibition club for the kinky. Properly minded people could visit, socialize, and if they were so inclined shag each other on beds in small booths. Security men prowled the interior and several signs were hung with messages that enticed people to eroticism while also warning them about getting consent up front. A pornographic film was displayed on a screen near the booths and several unsavory-looking men were watching it. Other men and women were at the tables and bar, all nicely dressed and talking in small groups or sitting alone. Sex didn't take place there as often as many patrons hoped, and mostly in the private areas that were invite only. The public areas had far less traffic. The club was merely a venue for sex, not a brothel. No one who entered was entitled to fast love, however excited your hopes might be. The place made its money through high entry fees- naturally lower for women and couples than single men- and liquor sales. Ford Maddox had owned and operated the place for about twenty years. He barely broke even most nights. At least he got to have fun watching the patrons' sex shows and occasionally joining in.
Maddox was sixty-three years old, stocky, Caucasian, with a gray beard and a weatherbeaten expression. Some women found him handsome or charming, most people kept their distance from him. Over time he had grown to prefer the latter. But not tonight. He did not often see a woman alone crying in his club. And he had to know why.
Only two women in here alone tonight, he thought, looking around. Neither is a regular. First there's the woman crying. She's a svelte brunette in a black evening gown, beautiful, mid-thirties but old before her time. I can tell, I've seen a lot of people in similar state. I'm that way myself. I established this place with cooperation from London's underworld- it's deeply involved in the city's nightlife, like it or not. I have been part of that nightlife my entire time as an adult. Vice either beats people down or it corrupts them. Looks like the former in her case.
Maddox looked at the other woman briefly. She was close to the same age as the first, similar in figure but differently dressed in a tan pantsuit with matching blazer. She had prematurely white hair, long and flowing about her shoulders. Maddox saw her flashing a predatory smile at various patrons. It showed all her teeth. The woman was putting off most people from approaching her, perhaps intentionally, perhaps not. She'd probably pick someone herself at some point and get her rocks off with a quick shag, Maddox had seen the type before. For many of his patrons who didn't have game, that was the best they could hope to earn. So he let her stay. She wasn't intent on harming people in a way they wouldn't welcome, as far as he knew.
The crying woman was more worrisome. Sooner or later, someone was going to approach her and ask what the matter was. If she told them, and the story got to the wrong people, well, discretion was a watchword in places like Rovers. Intense emotional displays were dangerous. Most patrons in the club wore actual or metaphorical masks. So Maddox decided to make a pre-emptive strike. Find out what the woman's issue was, and if she couldn't calm down enough to enjoy herself, recommend she depart.
He walked up to her and smiled calmly. "Hello, may I sit down?"
The woman wiped her eyes with a white silk handkerchief, then gave him a frown. "Um, sure."
"If you don't mind me asking, what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"
Maddox saw her cringe at the line for a brief instant, then she smiled and turned away. "I'm remembering happier times," she said. "I'd rather remember them alone."
"Alright, ma'am," Maddox replied. "If anyone bothers you, please let me know. I own this club and I would rather my patrons not suffer trouble."
"Thank you," the woman said, but did not look back at him. Maddox shrugged and walked away to check on other parts of his club before going back to his office. He did have paperwork to catch up on, after all.
At the bar, Jessie Marlow Kurtz ordered another drink. What am I doing here? she asked herself. I came here to reflect on happier times from my past, yes, but I can't stop crying. Perhaps the times were never really happy. Neither is my current life. I used to be the sort of loose woman who frequented places like this, enticed willing men to show me a good time. I would date them, accept their gifts, sometimes sell myself to them for a short time for a small fee. I got into it because I thought it would be fun, and sometimes it was. A loose woman has a kind of power over men, no matter how most women try to pretend otherwise. I enjoyed exercising that power. I collected my rewards in virtue and cash. My family was poor, I had no other choice. I have a straight-laced brother who went into the Army and then the bobbies, but I couldn't be like him. And eventually his ethics stopped him funding my desperation.
I lived the life a bit longer. There were some bad parts, but I enjoyed it more than the opposite. But I knew it couldn't do it forever.
A few years ago, I met a man who offered to take me out of the lifestyle I enjoyed. He's of Belgian descent, short and crow-faced, in his late forties. Made a lot of money very fast through means I learned too late. I entertained him for a night in this club, liked how he treated me. Respectful, sincere, throwing around a lot of money. Somehow I fell hard for James Kurtz- not his birth name, but one he adopted based on characters from Joseph Conrad, a writer he admired whom he said taught him many truths about life. He was mindful of my pleasure much as his own, or so it seemed.
I bared my soul to him, and he listened. I was grateful. He said honeyed words and bought me drinks and gifts over time. He paid for my sexual services- I let him follow me to a private booth here and feel me up, give me oral attention which I returned, and worked up to penetration. We kept things safe as can be in the oldest profession. It was surprisingly enjoyable, I climaxed many times under his attention. I let myself connect to him in ways I did not predict. He was always good in bed, and that made things worse when I learned just who and what he really was.
He kept coming back to me, and I got more into him. One day I was crossing the street. A lorry came around the corner too fast and nearly hit me. James pushed me out of the way, got clipped and broke his leg in the process. He cried in my arms while waiting for the ambulance, glad I was alive. After that, I accepted his offer to make an honest woman of me. We married in a small ceremony and I swore to love him alone the rest of my days.
I should have asked exactly what he did for a living. He said he was an entertainment mogul who also worked in finance, but was vague. Asking around, I heard a lot of people owed him money, but no one would tell me exactly why. Then, one night shortly after we wed, I saw him meeting with other men in a smoke-filled back office of his club, a dive called Conrad's that served bar food and drinks. Curious, I moved close and listened. I only heard snatches of the conversation, but my husband mentioned loans that were past due, fraud and gambling rackets, and various smuggling enterprises. It was obvious to anyone who had seen a gangster film what was being discussed. Everyone deferred to my husband and gave him nods of respect. When he said to forgive a debt in exchange for a favor, or increase rates with a warning, the others listened. When he suggested that a serious debtor's legs be broken, a large Russian named Igor Ivanov nodded and said it would be done.
The truth was startling. My husband was a crime boss.
