|Salvation of the Third Kind Pt.
by Whiff ©
The door was an old, heavy oak, turn of the century thing, beaten and weathered, with years of damage around the area of the latch. A fairly new key set was about a foot above it, but as he pushed in, it opened without resistance. The moment it did, the smell hit him in the face.
Predominantly urine, but a sickly sweet, acrid odor too. And a hint of Lysol. His eyes adjusted slowly as he slipped in, and closed the door behind him. There was a bare light bulb at the end of the hall, to the right of the stairs which started just past the steel panel that read "Super". He thought about knocking, but decided not to. No sense in drawing attention to himself. In his light raincoat, worn against a threatened rainstorm tonight, and worsted brown suit, the tie loosened on his white shirt, he already stood out too much in this neighborhood.
As he struggled to take it in, this place, this awful place, a guy staggered down the stairs who looked like a homeless man. With a heavy, ratted beard, a knitted hat pulled tight to his head, but hair still sticking wildly down from under it, and three layers of dirty clothes, he was the picture of destitution. As the man slithered past Dan, the body odor added to his horror. Susan, lovely, earthy Susan. Here? In this hell of a walk up?
There was a wood door to his left, and squinting, he could read the number. 101. 221 would, presumably, be upstairs. He started up. As he did, a low moan echoed, he couldn't tell where it came from. Jesus, he thought, it's Dante. At the top, the hall turned right, and he looked down at the two rows of flimsy doors on both sides. The only light came from a dirty window at the far end. His stomach did a jump, as though he was going to throw up. He took a deep breath.
His mother's voice came back to him, whispering over the phone from Phoenix. "You have to find Susan, dear. I can't ask Bradley. She called me yesterday and sounded awful. Begging for money. I told her to come out here, we could try to work things out, but she wouldn't hear of it. She sounded drunk, dear. As though she could hardly get the words out. She started crying when I told her I wouldn't. You know how Bradley is about her. Anyway, use your credit card for anything you need for her. I pay those bills. This is the phone number."
He found the address at the library in a reverse phone book, and looked in the Atlas for the street map. Even though the train ride from Boston was five hours, it wasn't far from Grand Central, so he caught the seven o'clock. He was afraid he had remembered this area from stomping around years ago, but it was even worse than that. The last two blocks toward the river, the derelicts, bums, whores and scavenging teens were thick, even at noon.
One skinny black teen solicited him. "Ten bucks, baby, a nice blow job, right in the alley there hon."
He asked where 1517 was, and she just glared and turned away, muttering "Crackhead." He finally found it, without help. There were about five of the ancient brownstones, right in a row.
He was standing in front of 221. It had been listed as Crockett, A S. The little tag in a green brass holder hung at an angle said "Doke". He took another deep breath, and turned the knob. As he stepped quickly inside, looking guiltily down the hall to see if anyone noticed his trespass, the smell changed to a strong, thick perfume. It was awful. Susan was sprawled on her side on a cot in the corner, her back to him. She turned when she heard the door, and smiled at him. "Hi, baby. Bliss'll take care of you, honey. What chou like, honey? You know what, thi's yer lucky day, baby. You carryin', I'll take you to the moon fer fifty and a nice hit."
He stared, feeling the impulse to gag again. He had last seen her waving gaily from the back seat of a convertible, heading into the city from Cambridge, after taking him to dinner with a couple of "dear friends". That was, lets see, a year and a half ago. Her blonde hair spinning crazily around her head, giggling happily, her pretty, sensual face laughing. The two guys had been happy to get going, they didn't like her attention to her "Little brother", a year and a half younger than she was, too smart for his own good, she boasted to them.
She had been born the day her dad killed himself at 17 Wall street, as Bradley sat outside the waiting room, already after their mother. They had often giggled that Mum must've been pregnant the day the two were married, otherwise both of them would have wanted to wait longer, a "proper interval." As it was, he and Susan had grown up together, raised mostly by a nanny, and what emotional support they had came from each other. Bradley had hated her from the beginning. He and Susan had decided in their teens it was because she reminded him Mother wasn't a virgin when they married. Perhaps, in a way, that really was the reason.
He walked over and sat down beside her on the cot. Closer, he could see how red and watery her eyes were, and she seemed to have trouble focusing as he neared her. One arm was thrown out to the side, and looking down, as the springs squeaked, he saw raw, red dots on the inside of her elbows. One was bleeding. His stomach heaved hard, and he tasted the railroad tuna salad as it tried to come up. He fought to control his nausea.
She was mumbling "Whassa matta, honey. Look, I know I.. well yeah, but looka these tits, baby." Her fingers started wrestling with the two buttons on the dirty cotton shift she was wearing. He whispered "No, No Susan." She stopped, and tried harder to focus on him. He whispered "It's Danny, Susan. Danny."
He thought he saw brief recognition for an instant. But then, she sighed, and said "Come on, honey. Don't jive. Doke tod ya, din't he? Jus' fifty an a hit. Take ya tuh heaven, baby." The tuna came up, spraying over the bare mattress as he twisted his head away. He could hardly smell it over the stench of cheap perfume. He remembered how nice she always smelled, as they cuddled to each other in his bedroom when he had the frequent dreams about robbers, or goblins, or, when he got older, Viet Cong.
He ran over to the sink in the far corner, letting the rest of the sandwich out, explosively, as he turned on the water. The noise from the tap dominated the room. There was something nasty looking already in there, but he shut his eyes, though he knew it was too late. The anger was starting. That rage he used to get, that led him into boxing, light heavy Champ two years running at Yale. Bradley loved to get him to shadow box for his friends' amusement. He had always just gone along, unlike Susan, who began rebelling about the year they threw her out of Wellsley. They had grown apart so fast, she thinking he lacked courage, he thinking she was a latter day hippie.
He cupped water over his face, then sipped some to cover the taste in his mouth. He turned, trying to control himself, pictures of grabbing her, dragging her down the stairs, out in the light, heading for a hotel, dancing in crazy sparkles in his mind. He heard her mumbling "Danny?" when the door flew open. A short, very black man came running in, brandishing a knife. He had black, waxy, shiny frizzed hair, a leather jacket, and tight jeans over a pair of black cowboy boots. Susan started to scream "No, no Doke, don' hit me. Ain't my fault, baby. Ain't..."
The man took two long steps to her and backhanded her face. He lost control. Even as Doke turned, and brought the knife up to a ready position, he grabbed the skinny wrist, and pounded his well practiced right uppercut into the man's solar plexus. He felt the wrist go limp, twisted it, heard the knife clatter to the floor, drew his arm back, then watched as the man slowly sunk to his knees, eyes bugged out in pain. "Wha, wha....."
He'd seen it before. If they were out of shape, only one punch, in just the right place, was all it took. But it wasn't enough for him, as the man struggled, raising his head with obvious effort, and his sister wailed "Doke, Doke." He punched down on the grizzled chin with every ounce of strength he could muster, and watched the eyes roll up, then closed as Doke collapsed into a heap. He felt his head clear slowly, the adrenaline still there, but satisfied, at least a little. He felt pain on his knuckle. Enough to keep control, he thought.
Susan was staring down at the huddled, bleeding body beside the bed, on her knees, a hand over her mouth. She was sniffling softly. He recognized that, the sad, belittled sound of a daughter becoming more and more estranged from her mother, with only her half brother to turn to. He remembered that, the sound, when his mind was buzzing with her closeness, the feel of her breasts pushing against him, her smell. His stomach heaved again.
She looked up at him, still no recognition in her face. He looked around, saw a canvas bag under the window, open, with clothes pushing up through the top. It was bright red. There was a pair of dirty white high heeled shoes at the foot of the cot, and he grabbed them, speaking in as normal voice as he could manage, that still sounded threatening, telling her "Put these on."
He stuffed the clothes back in the bag, zipped it up, then pulled Doke's wallet out of his pants. There was a huge wad of dirty bills, and he counted out five hundred. He wondered later where he got that particular number, what was she owed for services rendered? He threw the rest in a messy heap over the crumpled leather jacket, along with the plastic wallet. Then, because he was still angry, he kicked the black man in the ribs. "Lets go, Bliss."
He'd been afraid she might yell, or complain, or fight. But she just let him drag her along, tripping as they ran down the stairs. He felt desperate to get out of there, into the sunshine, fresh air, or as fresh as it gets in New York. Away from that smell. He stood on the curb, sensing people watching him, mumbling, one of the whores pointing at Susan, but he took deep breaths, trying to rid himself of the memories. Finally, he looked at Susan. She was staring at him, mouth open, but he had no clue what might be going on behind her wide, watery blue eyes.
He looked around, but naturally there wasn't a cab in sight. He started up the street, when he saw one drifting down the other side. He dragged Susan out in front of it. The black guy driving started screaming "Hey motherfucker, I don' want no trouble. Git the fuck outta my way."
He flashed a fifty, and the cabbie shut up instantly. "Where to, bro?"
On the twenty block ride uptown, to the Olympia, where he was known from the years at Yale, Susan curled up in the far corner of the back seat, watching him blearily, breathing hard. He was settling down, and caught a brief glimpse of a furry patch under the dirty white skirt. Christ, he thought, no fucking panties. He unzipped the bag, and rooted around, finally finding a pair, red, with a flower in the crotch. He handed them to her, and she silently struggled into them, as he felt a pulse in his groin, remembering how sexy he had thought she was as a teen, practically the only woman he ever knew of his age. He remembered being surprised when he finally got laid within two weeks of getting to college, it had been amazingly easy.
The desk clerk recognized him. His first look had been with a sneer of distaste as he took in her tear streaked face, filthy dress, and shaking hand, but the light dawned when Dan flipped the Visa card to him. "Mr. Harcourt? Ah, yes sir, awfully nice to see you. Of course, yes, we have a nice twin bed, small sitting room. A Doctor? Yes, there are two I could call, uh, well, is it an emergency, sir? Yes, yes, I guess it is. Uh, may I make a recommendation, sir? Dr. Smith might be more appropriate, though there is one possible problem, sir. Yes, he's black, sir. But he's very experienced with, umm, problems like this, sir. I saw you fight in Madison Square Garden three years ago, sir, did I ever tell you? The year you went to the semi's in the Golden Gloves, sir. If I may say so, sir, you were amazing. I always thought the referee should have stopped Davies from his below the belt tactics, sir. Thank you, sir."
The message light was on when he got to the room. "Doctor Newcome will be here between two and three, Mr. Harcourt. I've given him, uhh, an idea as to the problem, sir. Thank you, sir."
Susan stood in the middle of the room, staring at him. When he hung up the phone, she whispered "Danny? Danny, is it you? Really?" He took her in his arms, feeling hers reach tentatively around him. Her hair stunk, a strong, body odor kind of smell, but it was mixed with the perfume. He guided her to a chair. She didn't want to let him go, but he made her sit down.
Pulling off the raincoat, his suit coat, and then, after thinking, his shirt and pants, he stepped quickly into the bathroom. There was shampoo, after shave, conditioner, and two kinds of soap' in little plastic bottles and paper on the counter by the sink. Even some cologne. He went back and rooted around in the bag. There were a pair of red pants that smelled clean, and a tank top. He found a pair of panties that had a stain in the crotch, but smelled all right. He was carefully avoiding thinking.
"Come on, Susan. You need a shower. Come on." He pulled her up, and unbuttoned the shift to her navel. Her tits fell out, they were bigger than he remembered, and as he pulled the thing down, he realized she had gained a little weight. It actually looked good, a little fullness in the hips, that he remembered as thin and wiry. Her thighs weren't as muscled. He'd always heard people in her kind of shape got skinny. Maybe it's a good sign, he thought. Maybe she hasn't been like this too long. He saw her hand shaking.
As he pulled her into the white tiled bathroom, she stumbled and moaned. He turned on the spray, and tried to push her into the bathtub, but she couldn't get her leg up over the edge. As he pushed down his boxers, knelt and pulled off the panties with the flower, he felt his cock stiffen, but tried to push it out of his mind. He stepped under the water, and lifted her in with his hands under her shoulders, feeling scratchy hair in her armpits. She grunted when she felt the water, and from the effort to get her feet under her. Her hands grabbed his hips.
He poured shampoo on her hair, the long, soft hair he remembered always so clean and fresh smelling, and put a little in his own. As he massaged and scratched, he felt a couple of bumps, that broke loose when he picked at them. Jesus Christ, he thought, bugs or something. He looked carefully, letting the spray wash the foam out, spreading the long strands so he could see her scalp. The skin looked white, he thought, not too bad. Finally satisfied, he stripped the paper off the deodorant soap, and used a washcloth on her face, then started down her body. He could feel his prick now, rock hard, straining out to her, and kept trying to ignore it.
Suddenly, he felt her hand surround it. He was scrubbing her back by now, and he heard her coo "Mmmmm, baby, it's nice and hard, baby. Bliss'll take care of that for ya, baby." He shut his eyes, and grabbed her shoulders tightly, shaking her. "Susan, Susan, stop it. Stop it." She looked up at him, and grinned, an evil, daffy, pleased look in her eye. He felt her hand start to jack at him. He got some water in his eye, as they struggled. Anger made him slap her.
Her hands came up to her face, and she started crying. There was a wailing emptiness to it. A hopelessness. He felt his heart pang, sadness ripping through his gut as he thought about them giggling as they swam in the lake during the summers, buck naked as ten and nine year olds. Fuck life, he thought. Fuck his dad, fuck his mother, oh shit.
He released her shoulders, and she stayed like that, bawling softly, so he knelt and soaped down her stomach, then into the thick, matted tan fur between her thighs, thicker in a slim rectangle right above her slit than in the larger triangle of lighter, shorter hair that went under her. As he pushed the washcloth there, feeling her spread her legs slightly to allow him access, he heard her choke "Go ahead, baby. Go ahead, make Bliss feel good, baby." He pushed his finger up inside her, hearing her groan, but her hands came down to his head. "Go 'head, honey, use your tongue, make it wet, baby." He kept thinking what's in there, Susan? What kind of filth, what kind of disease? His cock spasmed.
He grabbed her hips, and twisted her around roughly, shoving her against the tiles. Pulling her butt cheeks apart, he ran the washcloth through the crack, trying not to notice the brown clumps surrounding her rectum. He rubbed hard, as she yelped softly, one hand waving weakly behind her trying to stop the friction. He cleaned her legs quickly, then turned her around, and made her sit down, the shower spray hitting her right in the face. Her feet were filthy, and he scrubbed for a couple of minutes, noticing the length of the nails. When he finished, he leaned back on his haunches, his dick still straight out. Idly, he threw away the washcloth, and soaped himself up, then wrapped his hand around his cock. He stared at her fantastic body, nice full tits, abdomen still flat, pussy spread a little, the water beaded sexily. He stroked twice, then squeezed and felt his nut. The jiz flew out onto her stomach.
Her eyes were wide as he did it. She looked down at her abdomen, even as the spray drained the white goo away, then back to his face. "Danny, Danny, what...." He slapped her again, and she started to cry. "Jesus fucking christ, Susan, Bliss, whoever the fuck you are. Wake up, will you. Jesus."
He waited for his heart to slow, then dragged her out, grabbed a big towel, and started to rub her down. He heard her mumbling through her sobs "Danny, Danny, why, I'm sore baby, I can do that, baby, I can, oh shit." As he started to rub her hair, he thought damn, a comb. Then he remembered the one he carried. For some reason, he wanted her hair to look nice. He toweled himself down quickly, ran out to his coat and then back in, making her sit down on the toilet. He used the hotel hair dryer along with the comb. She had enough sense to turn slightly away so he could get at the back. He ran the comb through, down to her shoulder blades, as he directed the hot air behind it. It started to look nice, the way he remembered, and his cock stiffened against her shoulder. He felt her start, then lean back against it. He felt a tear roll down his cheek as her hand reached around and covered the head of his shaft. He pushed her roughly away, and pulled his hips back. She tried to twist her head around, but he pushed it back.
As he was sliding the panties up her legs, he felt her shiver. Looking up, he saw her hand drifting vaguely toward her pussy. "Baby, you got off, honey, I gotta too, honey. Hey look, you carryin'? Lets get high baby, then get off, okay honey?" It's gonna be a nightmare, he thought.
To Be Continued...
|Click on the name for contact info and more works by Whiff.|
© Copyright 2000 by literotica.com.