Sexual Service (11 page)

roaming around the stenching swamp of his foul mind, let alone falling from his lips, he offered her a smile.

“Blond, Haynes Blond,” he introduced himself. She stared at him with a gormless expression.
No fucking response as fucking usual
. “Do. You. Speak. Fucking. Eng ...”

“You’re late, arsehole!” she hissed.

“I take it that you
do
speak English.”

“Jesus F Christ! Are you fucking thick, or fucking what?”

“I must say that I find people so incredibly friendly in your neck of the woods,” Blond returned. “That fat slag with tits like melons and armpits that smell like rotten fish in the shop down the road was a delightful woman. You’ve obviously both been taught English by the same foul-mouthed teacher of fucking English. Either that or you’ve both got PMS. There again, I doubt that the fat slag ...”

“What time is it?” the tart asked, scratching her fanny slit.

“She stinks like a prostitute’s fucking bottom-hole. If I had my way ... I’m sorry, did you ask me time?”

“Yes, what time is it?”

“Ah, now there’s a question. A leading question, if you get my meaning. A searching question, if ever there was one. A rhetorical question. In fact, a question that deserves an answer.

A premeditated answer regardless of what the time really is.”

“Now what the hell are you going on about?” she snapped. “All I asked you was the time.”

“
Time Is On My Side.
The Rolling Stones, circa ... Any chance of a sandwich?”

“No, they’re for the girl guide meeting this evening.”

105

“Just a quick round of navy-blue knickers and pussy cream. I mean, ham and mustard.”

“No!”

“Cheese and pickle?”

“No!”

“I wasn’t hungry, anyway. Bollocks to your bloody sandwiches. Screw your fucking sandwiches, and the Earl of Sandwich. As far as I’m concerned, you can stuff them right up the cuntal canal of your cunt and ...”

“Are you completely insane?”

“On a scale of one to ten, I say about twenty-eight.”

“I’m not interested in your level of insanity.”

“Then, don’t ask. I mean, why the fuck ask a question if you don’t want it fucking answered? For Christ’s sake, what the hell is the point in asking a fucking question if ...” Blond paused and grinned. “I like your hair. Long, black, shining in the light ... I wouldn’t mind spunking over your hair. Anyway, enough bollocks. I assume that you’re my contact. My assumption is that I’ve contacted my contact. Is my assumption correct in assuming that you are my contact, the infamous Miss Spenda Penny?”

“Your assumptions are wholly incorrect. What time is it?”

“At the third stroke of my wrist, the time will be twelve-fifteen, precisely.”

“Good, there’s still time.”

“There’s always time. Time is infinitely infinite. Time waits for no man and is relative which means that relatively speaking in relation to mankind ...”

“We have to be at the pub within ten minutes,” she interrupted him, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

“Bloody licensing laws. I really don’t know why the pubs can’t stay open ...”

106

“Not for closing time, you limp prick! We have to meet our contact.”

“I really don’t see what my prick has to do with it, limp or otherwise.”

“Just shut up and follow me. I wish I’d worn knickers, it’s bloody freezing outside.”

Walking across the hall, the woman leaned out of the door and checked that the coast was clear before stepping outside. Pulling his coat collar up as he followed her down the lane, Blond realized that he didn’t know her name. If she wasn’t Miss Spenda Penny, then who was she?

Fuck her name
, he reflected, focusing on the half moons of her buttocks emerging alluringly below her microskirt.
No panties? I wouldn’t mind sinking my teeth into her anal orbs!

Pondering on her fanny slit, he grinned. Her vaginal lips would be freezing, her sex juice hanging in milky icicles from her inner butterfly wings.
Sheer sexual bliss!

Vowing to heat up her vulval flesh and melt her icicles of lust, he wondered who they were going to meet and why. All would be revealed before long, he knew as she rounded a corner and dragged him into a shabby bar that resembled a saloon from a cowboy film. He also hoped that her pinken pussy slit would be revealed before long but, at the same time, didn’t hold out much hope.
Hopelessness is hopeless
. That was the trouble with women, he reflected. They went around knickerless, displaying their pussy lips and dripping cunt milk all over the place but started complaining the minute a cock reared its beautiful head in readiness to fuck them.

At least there was a real fire burning in the grate, Blond observed as the warmth hit him.

That’ll melt her sex icicles!
Looking about him, he raised his eyebrows and licked his frozen lips.

The bar was full of gaggling, scantily-dressed, horny, sex-starved, fuckable little schoolgirlies who were obviously underage. Under age for boozing, that is. Or isn’t, as the case might or 107

might not be.
Fuck their ages, and their cunts!
Adjusting his stiffening penis as he eyed a young girl’s milk-white inner thighs, the sex-bulged swell of her pussy-stained navy-blue knickers, he decided that the place wasn’t so bad after all.

“This is a bit of all right,” he whispered as they approached the bar, his eyes transfixed on a girl’s white ankle socks as she lay on the floor writhing in an alcohol-induced sexual stupor. “I wouldn’t mind spending a few hours in her knickers. I mean, in here. Or years, come to that.”

“Shut up,” his female accomplis hissed. “Er ... Two Russian vodkas, please,” she said to the barman who, in Blond’s opinion, looked more like a council rat-catcher than a barman.

Whatever council rat-catchers looked like!

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Blond began, squeezing the woman’s arm. “But I don’t know your name.”

“Get your hands off me, you sad pervert!” she returned, pushing him away.

“You bloody female foreigners are a fiery bunch of foul-mouthed bitching bitches of bitches, I must say. Shit, I pity your husband. There again, I don’t suppose you’re married. I mean, what man in his right mind would marry a cow like you?”

“I am not married, and if I was to consider marrying then it would be to an attractive young girl,” she returned.

“Oh, you’re a lesbian! I like lesbians. I love watching lesbians licking each other’s wet, juicy cunts and ...”

“Shut up, you damned fool! You’re attracting attention.”

“Sorry. So, what’s your name?”

“My name’s ... What that bleeping sound?”

“Oh, it’s my mobile phone.”

108

“Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“Well, no because ... The thing is, it looks like a mobile phone but it’s not really a mobile phone.”

“What the fuck is it, then?”

“I have no idea. Taking a wild guess, I’d say it’s a look-alike mobile phone. Actually, it’s about time I found out what the fucking thing is.”

Taking the phone from his pocket, Blond pressed the green button and waited in anticipation.
Fucking technology
, he mused, becoming impatient as the thing continued to bleep.

Punching the buttons at random, he bashed the phone against the counter several times. “Fucking bastard,” he breathed, the bleeping becoming louder as he repeatedly beat the phone against the bar. Finally flinging the thing into the roaring log fire, he rubbed his hands together gleefully.

That was that little problem dealt with, he reflected as the barman placed the drinks on the counter.
A problem burned is a problem solved.
Sipping his vodka, he turned to the woman and again asked her name.

“My name is of no consequence,” she returned stiffly.

“Miss Of No Consequence? What a strange name.”

“My name doesn’t matter, you fool!”

“I once knew a girl call Miss Cumalot. She did, too.”

“Forget my name, for shit’s sake!”

“What am I supposed to call you, then? Chic? Bird? Tart? A bit of skirt with a juicy ...

We’ll settle for Miss Shit’s Sake, shall we? How are you, Miss Sake?”

“If you have to call me anything, then call me Labia.”

109

“Now there’s a lovely name. It’s not English, is it?”

“No, it’s Gynaecoidian.”

“Fascinating, I must say. Actually, it’s not fascinating. It’s a bloody stupid name. Who’s ever heard of anyone called Labia? Or Miss Inner Lips, come to that?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Sorry. So, who am I meeting and why? With whom is one meeting at the meeting?”

“You’re meeting Boris.”

“Boris the spider?”

“Boris Bollocksky. He’s going to take you to zone twenty-eight.”

“Zone twenty-eight? What’s that, a night club?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“A brothel?”

“No.”

“A bar?”

“No.”

“A massage parlour?”

“I can’t tell you, for fuck’s sake!”

“Bloody don’t, then. See if I fucking care. What are all these horny, fuckable, lickable, fingerable, suckable schoolgirlies doing here?”

“Getting pissed and looking for a shag, I would imagine. Ah, there’s Boris standing by the door. Go with him and do exactly as he says.”

“He looks like a fucking gangster!” Blond gasped.

“He
is
a fucking gangster.”

110

“Oh, right. Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Labia. Miss Inner Lip. Miss Pussy Lip. Miss

...”

“Likewise, I’m sure. Go now.”

“I’d rather come now.”

Knocking back his vodka, Blond made his way to the door and followed the bald-headed man outside to a waiting car. This was all rather odd, he reflected, again wondering why Spew knew nothing of the Penisburg mission. No instructions, no passport ... Had the pilot not been as pissed as a newt and lost the instructions, Blond would have known what his job was to be.
Do
newts get pissed?
All he could do was place himself the in capable, or incapable, hands of Boris.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to place himself in the hands of a gangster. In fact, he was sure that it was a fucking naff idea.

Grunting and pointing at the rear door of the car, Boris climbed into the front and started the engine. Blond got into the back, making himself comfortable as the car moved off. This was it, the beginning of the journey to ... To where, he had no idea. As long as there were horny, naked, sex-starved, juicy-cunted young girls waiting for him, it didn’t matter where the fuck he was going. And a bog house, he mused, his bladder near to bursting point. Wondering why his driver was so quiet, he decided to try to strike up a conversation. If they were to be couped up together for a while, then a little banter would pass the time.

“You look like Odd Job from the James Bond movies,” he quipped. His joke meeting with stony silence, he assumed that Boris didn’t speak English. “Do. You. Speak ... What’s the bloody point,” he breathed, looking out of the window as they drove through a forest. “I’m 111

fucking pissed off trying to be friendly to you bloody foreigners.” Again wondered how far their destination was, he realized that their journey was taking them into the Urinal Mountains.

Leaving Penisburg far behind them in the dark of the freezing night, he dozed off and dreamed his disgusting dreams about the schoolgirlies he’d seen in the bar.

After an hour of travelling along snow-blanketed winding lanes, they finally arrived at a log cabin situated miles from anywhere. This was bizarre, Blond thought, opening his eyes and recalling Labia’s words.
Zone twenty-eight.
He’d heard the term before but couldn’t recall where.

It wasn’t a night club, that was for sure.
It’ll come to me later
, he thought, leaving the car and following Boris along the icy path to the door.
Hopefully, that’s not all that’ll come to me!

“In!” Boris growled, kicking the door open with his size twelve boot. Blond ventured into the cabin and looked about him as the door slammed shut. The key turning in the lock, he span round on his heels and frowned as he heard the car door slam and the engine start. Boris the bastard was leaving him prisoner in the cabin, he knew as he looked at the barred windows.
Now
what?
he mused, rubbing his cold hands together and wondering what the fuck this had to do with MPs seeking the wet mouths of rent boys on Clapham Common.

At least there was a welcoming pot of coffee steaming on the wood-stove.
And a plate of
sandwiches,
he observed happily, his stomach rumbling again as he gazed at the food placed on a table by the far wall. “Fucking hell!” he cursed as he took a bite. “What the fuck’s this meat?

Alsatian fucking dog?” Spitting the meaty morsel out, Blond tossed the sandwich back onto the plate and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’ll bet it’s fucking chicory,” he muttered, taking a sip.

112

“Mmm, not too bad.” Sitting on a chair by the stove, he again rubbed his hands together, warming himself as he wondered what the hell to do.

There were several options, he mused. Sit around for half the fucking night and wait for

... For what, he had no idea. Or try and break out of the cabin and ... And what, he had no idea.

Or have a wank while he was waiting for ... For whom, he had no idea.
Might as well have a
quick wank anyway.

Walking to the corner of the cabin, Blond pulled his cock out and was about to piss in the floor when he heard a muffled sound which seemed to come from behind the back wall of the cabin. Turning, he zipped his trousers and returned to his chair by the stove, wondering whether there were wolves roaming outside.
Or scary monsters!
he mused fearfully, wishing he was leaning up against the bar in the Trotsky Club being wholly obscene and abusing to Caroline the barmaid.