Casanova
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Nope, that’s not it. Call me Ishmael… no, not that one. Um...Twas the night...damn, that’s not it either. Marley was dead lo’ these many years. Yeah, that’s it! That’s the one. Bob Marley had been dead quiet some time when Steve met Lydia.
Lydia was a sweet piece of ass and Steve loved trapping her in the closet. She always had that terrified look on her face when she swallowed his semi stiff cock. Steve smiled when he thought of how flustered she was when they were alone together. And making her wear stockings and a garter belt instead of pantyhose, pure genius on his part. Next he would forbid her to wear panties, even when she had her period. Steve congratulated himself with a third, fourth and fifth beer at the bar. That waitress that brought him the drinks had a nice fat ass, and she had definitely been checking out his package, he was sure. For, you see, Steve was King of the Lechers, and reserved his place in Hell long in advance.
All of that, though, was just for fun. Romance and security were an entirely different matter. Steve’s current girlfriend, Ester Hollingdale, was just what the doctor ordered. She was older and less attractive than he, wealthy, had good breeding and reputation and, best of all, failing health. In no time flat, they would be married and, shortly there after, Steve would be a grieving widower with all the power and wealth he’d ever dreamed of. Life was sweet.
As the forty something middle manager lay in bed, that old nemesis stirred and reared it’s ugly head. Steve both hated, and loved, his greatest embarrassment. It always started with an innocent thought, but always grew into the same scene. This particular one happened on an elevator. He stood in the middle, with younger and more muscular men at either side. A grinding sound brought the car to a screeching halt between floors. The temperature rose quickly, so to cool off both of the other men began to remove their jackets and shirts. Steve had to fight the urge to openly stare at their bulging pecks. He could feel the embarrassing stirrings in his boxers. Soon Steve couldn’t hide it, he was hard as a rock looking at these well-muscled animals. Being small fat and bald, Steve was the only one who was even remotely aroused. That changed quickly.
The young, strong men beat Steve badly. They tore his clothes from his body and bitch slapped him to the floor. As usual, they had found the silk camisole and French cut panties that he always wore under his suit, at least in these fantasies. The white muscle man held Steve’s head tight and turned his face up from his downcast position of submission up, where it could be used. He sank his hard prick in Steve’s ‘bitch hole’ and fucked his face without mercy. The black man slammed his massive tool up Steve’s ass. As usual, they made short work of making a prison cunt out of the middle-aged businessman.
Steve lay in bed with a finger up his ass and a flying fist up and down his stiff cock. He moaned loudly as the wave of sexual release welled up in his balls. He stabbed a finger in his anus hard with each new thrust. Soon, his tight sphincter loosened enough to accept another intruding digit. He twiddled them in opposite directions within himself, gripping his cock with a force that usually brought tears. The more it hurt, the louder he screamed when he finally came. Lately, though, that took longer and longer.
Steve lay panting for breath, his clogged arteries had his heart racing with exertion and his brain paused only for a fraction of a second to register the event. With resigned automation, Steve wiped the watery cum from his fat stomach and rolled over to sleep. And a fitful sleep it was. Steve tossed and turned endlessly. The bed wasn’t the slightest bit comfortable. The pillows were made of concrete. With great, Herculean effort, Steve finally slept.
Not five minutes later, the door to his bedroom burst open.
“Steve, old boy, get out of that bed and get some decent clothes on. There’s sport to be had, you dirty rotten scoundrel,” an older man, with a club jacket and a martini called in an off hand manner.
Steve sprang upright with a horrid look of inconvenience on his face. Then he realized that Chas Martin had been dead for a dozen years now. Chas had been a partner with the first firm Steve had worked for. They had been drawn together by their mutual distaste for all that was sacred. Well, that and the fact that Steve did everything Chas ever wanted, including the time he lined up a twelve year old girl, an illegal from Dominica, for his boss to use for the weekend.
“Chas?” he called out cautiously. “Chas, is that you?”
“No, it’s the fucking IRS, you silly ass. Of course it’s me. Get the fuck out of that bed and let’s grab a quick ‘nine holes’,” the apparition chuckled, referring to an old joke about the secretarial pool.
Steve was scared shitless, but that wouldn’t be the sort of thing that he should show Chas. All sorts of confusing thoughts were racing through his mind, but chief among them was, ‘Boy, I could go for one of those martinis.’ Absently, Steve got out of bed and walked past the spirit and out to the bar to mix himself some courage. The first sip wasn’t quite enough. He drained the glass, mixed another one and lit a cigarette before addressing Chas again.
“So, what the hell kind of nightmare is this?” he asked the martini glass still in his hand.
“Oh really, old sport, don’t you ever read anything but Hustler?” The, less than opaque, Chas chuckled at his own joke. “But seriously, we have a few old memories to take a quick peek at, and then I have to be back at the club for Bridge. Come along, we haven’t much time.”
The suburban bedroom became the back of a dingy factory, long neglected and falling down around the boy and girl in the small room to the left.
“I swear to God I’ll let him bite you,” the ten-year-old boy shouted at the girl. She was crying and looked as though she were ready to die and be rid of this whole scene. The boy held a Garter Snake by the head and was taunting the girl with it. She was in a fretful state. The panic in her eyes alone was a pitiful and pathetic sight.
“What the hell is this?” Steve asked Chas. “What does this have to do with me?”
“Oh Steve, really,” Chas droned in his bored and affected tone between martini sips. The scene continued.
“I swear to God, Suzy, I’ll let this snake bite you, and you’ll swell all up, and you won’t be able to breath, and you’ll just die right here. But if you take off your clothes, I’ll save you from the snake.” Steve’s face paled as he remembered this scene, but he remembered it from a different angle, from his own childhood. The hellatious brat with the snake was, or had been, him. He was silent through the rest of the scene.
The distraught girl was beaten, and she knew it. She cried even harder as she unbuttoned and unzipped and, finally, stood nude before her tormentor. Her humiliation ran deeper than she had thought possible, but that wasn’t enough for the young Steve.
“Now pee on the floor,” he ordered, shaking the snake at her. Her protest was disorganized and died in her throat when Steve moved closer to her. Her tiny spirit broken, she squatted and relieved her bladder for the twisted little boy to see. When Suzy finished, her eyes still on the floor in front of her, she stood. She was so ashamed of herself that she couldn’t even look at him. For a laugh, Steve kicked her pile of clothes in the piss puddle, threw the snake in her general direction and ran away laughing like a hyena.
“Marvelous sport, old chum. Loved the finishing touches.” Chas’s ghost laughed. Steve did not reply. The backdrop again changed.
A slightly older Steve was in his parent’s house. He tried desperately to get his mother’s attention for something, but she was too busy dressing for an evening of social climbing. The frustrated boy went back to his room in retreat. A bit later, once his parents were out of the house and his little sister was sound asleep, Steve sneaked out of bed and down to the living room. The high school girl baby-sitting that night was on the phone with a friend.
He paused a moment, considering what he should do to get her attention. Silently, he slipped out of his pajamas and pulled on his little pee-pee a bit. It didn’t take much to get it to stand, never did. Now properly prepared, he strolled into the living room and stood before the older girl, expecting her to drop the phone.
Drop the phone she did, indeed. Her laughter was bordering on hysterics. At first, Steve thought that the friend had said something funny and was annoyed that she wasn’t paying attention. It was when she spoke to the friend, telling her about the hilarious scene in front of her, that his small heart ripped in half. He sulked away, his pride in intensive care and fading fast. But, of course, his thoughts quickly turned to revenge. After a long, and loud, trip up the front stairs, young Steve tiptoed down the back stairs and went straight to the girl’s boots in the kitchen by the door. He didn’t even need a sexual fantasy to get off, as he jerked his little prick. Thoughts of revenge and power were enough. Soon he shot his cum load down deep in the toe of the left boot and scurried up to bed for the night. He giggled himself to sleep.
The adult Steve had regained some of his balance. “The bitch deserved it,” he shot off at Chas. “She was some sort of lezzy dyke. Oh well, her loss.”
“Quite,” was all Chas had to say. They moved on.
This scene Steve recognized right away. It was the sweatshop where he had found the little girl for Chas. He saw himself haggling, haggling, with her mother and older brother over the price. Eventually he settled on $100. He had hoped to get out for $50, but wasn’t even close to paying the $1000 the old woman was prepared to accept. Threats about calling INS and getting the whole family fired from the sweatshop had worked in his favor. The old women cried like a baby in her son’s arms as Steve led the girl away. The anguish on her face was absolutely horrible to Steve now. He could see every blow in the battle between her need to protect her child and the need to feed the remaining ones for the rest of the month, until they all got paid again. Steve, the apparition inhaled deeply and turned from the gruesome pageant.
“Only $100, old bean?” Chas quipped. “I must congratulate you. I had no idea you arranged that bit of fun so cheaply. My boy, I always knew you’d go far.”
The world went black.
Steve awoke with a terrible scream. The whip cracked again, creasing his thigh.
“Get up, you festering pustule,” a harsh woman’s voice screamed from the dark. The whip cracked just on the tip of his ear this time, deafening him. A beast of some sort, strong as an ape and fast as a cheetah, leapt on him in his bed. Soon he was flat on his face, bound both hand and foot and in tremendous pain. It seems the intruder was stepping on his balls. The conqueror dragged him from his bed and out into the hall. With no effort at all, he was locked into a pillar and stocks before the bay window. A leather covered paddle slapped at his bare ass cheeks, bringing them a soreness that he had never dreamed possible.
“You putrid shit hole,” this new apparition scolded. “Who gave you permission to treat me like this?”
In the window there appeared a portrayal of one of the times he had dominated his secretary Lydia in the supply closet. Steve saw himself smile as he forced the thirty something woman to strip nude and take him in her asshole. Just for good measure he used her hair as reigns, making sure she would have to fix it lest she have to explain why it was mussed. From his new vantage point in the stocks, Steve could see that the pretty woman had cried through the entire event.
A thunder of lashes crashed against his naked flesh. He could feel it rip in places, spilling his blood. He screamed for forgiveness, he begged for mercy. The torture stopped, but only because the scene changed.
This one was set in an apartment that was not his own. He recognized it as belonging to Stella. She sat in her chair in the living room, holding an empty bottle of pills. The phone in her hand rang endlessly. Her face was a mixture of concern and, obvious, pain. With a deeply pathetic sigh, she hung up. A second scene arose. Steve was in his apartment with his cock down the throat of a young, fat woman. He had made her strip, while he remained mostly clothed. The phone rang in the background as he held her head and forced himself deeper into her throat. The poor woman gagged and tried to get away. Steve had just slapped her into submission and had his way with her.
The phone stopped ringing just as he blew his load in her mouth. She tried, desperately, to breath for a long moment, and was finally able to clear her throat. In true Steve fashion, her mild protests were met in kind. He pushed the nude girl into the hallway. Only after the door slammed in her face, did he remember her clothes. He went to the window and tossed the bundle of laundry out the window to the street below. With tremendous mirth, he shouted through the door that she could pick up her clothes out on the street, where she belonged. As a final artistic touch, he telephoned the police. The crowning success was toasted with a German beer or four.
“What did you think you were doing, you dickless mouse?” the ghost screamed in his ear. Pliers and a blowtorch were being used on his balls at the time. The stench of searing flesh, his flesh, made him throw up. The tormentor scooped up the offal and smeared it all back on his face, mostly in his mouth and nose. Steve gasped and gagged for air. It took forever to find any. A fist began trying to punch its way up his ass when the picture in the window changed yet again.
This room wasn’t fit for a human to live in, yet Steve counted eleven. He recognized the old island woman’s face immediately. She was in hysterics. Her sons and daughters were trying to console her, but nothing was working. No one spoke after just a few minutes. The sadness was epic.
“Who said you could use me like that?” the unseen ghost spoke in normal tones. “Who said you could cause me such sadness? I found life impossible to live, after what you let your boss do to me. I killed myself three months later. I cried when my daughter killed herself. I will never get over it.”
The thing that had been causing Steve so much physical pain and had shown him these scenes walked in front of him for the first time. She was obviously female, and very sexy to boot. Her body seemed perfect to him and the long blonde curls were very appealing. His beaten and bloody cock even stirred a bit. She turned to address him again. The apparition had no face.
“I am woman and I want to know who gave you permission to be an asshole to me?” she spoke, with the force and conviction of a billion voices focused into one. In the window, the scene continued and the oldest son finally spoke up.
“I will avenge her, Mama. I will kill every man who touched her.” Again, the world went black.
Sweat poured off Steve’s fat, hairy body. He fumbled for the light. With great effort, he finally got it to turn on. The light felt so much safer. His heart beat almost to the breaking point of his ribs. His breathing was fast, bordering on hyperventilation, but the light made him calm down. He checked the room to make sure he was alone.
Panic was setting in. He checked the clock to see the time. It was 4:00am. Still three hours till the sun. He had to stay awake. He couldn’t risk sleeping anymore. Whatever sort of flashback he was having, it had to stop right this fucking second. Steve contemplated getting a drink, but refused to leave his bed. Children believed their beds to be magical, untouchable by the monsters that scare them. At this point, Steve was clinging to anything and everything that made him feel safe. He settled for a cigarette.
He promptly dropped the lit cigarette when his bedroom door opened. His mind stopped on the illogical thought that he didn’t remember any of the other ghosts using the door. But who knew with ghosts? He decided to try to reason his way out of this one.
“Okay, okay,” he called out to the man he saw come through the door. “I get it. I’ve been an asshole and I’m going to die a lonely, broken old man. I fucking get it. Now get the fuck out of here and leave me alone. I’ll cut the shit from now on and do something nice for all the cunts I hurt. Okay? Is that all fucking right with you? Will you leave me the fuck alone now, huh?”
The man looked puzzled for a second, then raised a gun and shot three fingers off Steve’s left hand.
“What the fuck?” Steve screamed from his bed. “What the fuck is this?” A second shot smashed through his left foot and lodged in his calf. The blankets on the bed were instantly stained with blood and soaking up more each second.
“I finally found you,” the man said, in a heavily accented voice. “You fucking pig. Your boss got away from me, the fucker. He die, but now I get you.” The gun went off again. Steve’s right shoulder exploded in his face. “You kill my sister after you spoil her life. See you in hell.” The gun went off for the last time, leaving a neat hole in Steve’s forehead. The man wiped the fingerprints off the gun and put it in Steve’s hand. After wiping the spattered blood off himself, he left the apartment. Steve’s world faded to black, for the last time.
“Next,” an evil looking, hairy, red demon called from behind a stone desk. The cave was red with firelight.
“I believe there’s been some mistake here,” the terrified Steve began. “You see, I was expecting a third ghost, who would have certainly ensured my salvation. But then this Latino man broke in and.” He was silenced with a fireball the size of a city cab. It left him painfully crispy.
“Shut your bleeding mouth, ass-hole,” the demon taunted. “What the fuck do you think this is, anyway, some sort of Dickens novel?”
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