Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 08

Ally stepped aside as the VVIP slouched in, then sat on the bed and stuck out his leg. He'd dressed since his first foray- parachute pants and soft leather boots. Pointing at his foot, he growled in guttural Chinese. "Take my fucking shoe off."

If anything could rile these young Western whores, he knew, it was being ordered around by a man. An Asian man in particular. Unmoved, the little round-eye slapper jammed her fists on her hips and just stood there, shaking her head.

Zhang tried it in English this time. "Take it off, Western dog!"

Ally crossed her arms and shook her head again. "Bu!" she said, one of the most useful words she'd picked up from Yan. Startled to hear his own language coming out her mouth, Zhang followed up with another gruff tirade, then pulled off his boots and flung them aside. Ally looked on with a smirk. "Now you're getting it." she smiled, "Want shit done? Do it yourself."

Zhang stood and dis-masted his silk pantaloons, then off came the linen tunic and he stood, in a pair of grubby boxers and sleeveless white vest. Another unintelligible command while he pointed at his crotch. Another shake of the head from Ally.

Because she had a plan. Wind the idiot up till he lost his temper and came after her, then punch his lights out and get sent straight back to the Big House, the Naval Prison back in the desert. This time, surely, they'd never let her out, not if she rebuffed the mate of the king. Unbeknown to Ally, Zhang had the very same idea, not including the slut's return to prison. He was winding her up, looking for the trigger, the same one that had provoked such a lively display outside the gym.

He tried again. "Get down on your knees and suck my Chinese cock, you filthy Western dog."

"Know what?" Ally taunted, "You sound just like that Chinese guy from South Park. You know the guy? Who runs Shitty Wok? 'Oh, that a Wing! She a derricate rittle frower... BO YU JANG! BING LA SHOYANG BING LA CAH!"

On hearing his own language parodied, Zhang clenched his teeth and lunged with a growl. Ally sidestepped, fully expecting him, and slapped him hard enough on the side of the head to jar her hand. Doubled over, stumbling, Zhang carried on of his own significant inertia to head-butt the wall, then crashed sideways onto a low wooden table. A drinks tray with glasses and crystal decanter, a priceless Wedgwood vase, an overflowing silver ashtray and coffee cup all went flying, smashing down onto floor around him. No longer smiling, Ally put her fists up, knees bent, shoulders hunched, "Is that the best you can do you stupid fat fuck? Hmm? Come on, this is fun."

Zhang struggled to his feet. Wiping the blood from his ear, he rubbed finger and thumb together, then swiped his bloody nose with the back of a hand. From the din in his ear she may well have ruptured his eardrum, with that flat-handed blow to the temple. Small price to pay for the pleasure it gave. He pointed at her, glaring, winding her up, hissing and spitting threats in Chinese. "You little white dog!" he railed, "So you think THIS is fun? We haven't even started."

Ally returned the taunt in mock Chinese, and met his next advance with a one-two combo, aimed at his face, the first blow slightly wide, the second catching him squarely on the eyebrow. Hands over his face, Zhang staggered blindly around while Ally slowly circled him, fists up, just out of reach. Surely someone must have heard, she thought, surely someone would turn up to save him. Any second now. They'd bust in and haul her ass away and throw her back into prison. They'd take her back to her girls, back to Penny, Bayo and Yan, back to the boring, predictable, comfortable life of incarceration.

Zhang regained his footing, blood pouring from a cut over his eye. Shaking a fist, he slurred another expletive-laden threat, in seventh heaven already and almost fully aroused. He advanced on her, one step at a time, as Ally backed up, until she was hard against the door with nowhere to go. He came to a stop in front of her, knees bent, feet apart, in something resembling the horse-stance, waving his arm in make-believe kung fu. Ally looked at the offering. It was almost too good to be true, the Chinaman's crotch, fragile, unguarded, begging for its own Pearl Harbour moment.

The kick sent pins and needles shooting up Ally's leg, as her instep impacted soft, delicate flesh. Blinded by the purple sheets of pain, Zhang hit the floor like a poleaxed pig, rolling around on the blood-spattered carpet, clutching his balls, moaning and groaning and whimpering in Chinese. The orgasm ran its course and he raised a hand, "Holla! Holla!", 'Enough, enough'. Quality, not quantity. The angry little whore had just had gifted him the most wonderful climax to the evening.

"That's it?" Ally sneered, chest heaving, knee raised, massaging her foot. "You call yourself a bad boy?"

"Dui!" Zhang nodded, rolling onto his side at the foot of the bed, "I finish. You win."

"Well fuck me. Look at that. I must have kicked some English into you."

"I sorry, I sorry. I stay here. You take bed."

"As if. You think I'm gonna sleep with you in the room?"

"You take bed." Zhang said, then lay, quietly sobbing. The pain was exquisite, throbbing through his body with every heartbeat. This girl was amazing, better than many of the top-shelf professionals he'd had in the past. Her aim, her delivery, her total lack of restraint, absolutely first class. "You take bed. I no touch."

In reflex to her natural urge, Ally went to comfort him, but just as quickly pulled back. This wasn't some poor injured creature. This was a ruthless billionaire, who'd made his fortune doing god knows what. Not much of a brawler for a man of his reputation- a baby-eating, planet-killing stone-cold sociopath- but then again not too many were. Perturbed and grateful for her physical abilities, not to mention propensity for violence, Ally sat on the bed and swept back her fringe. "No more funny business?"

"Not tonight." Zhang blubbed, fondling his aching erection.

"Not tonight?" Ally scowled. "How about 'not ever'?"

"Not tonight." Zhang said again, discreetly masturbating.

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Zhang went for a top-up in the wee small hours, placing one knee on the bed, quietly, gently, just to see if what's-her-name was sleeping. She gave him a beautiful punch in the cock for his trouble, then took the polish off the gift by sitting in the shower crying her eyes out. Which seemed a bit odd, since the girl was like a honey badger much of the time- most fearless creature in the animal kingdom- in human form. Whatever her upbringing- something in her past must have given her these abilities- she was not afraid to injure and didn't pull her punches. Who knew? It might just be time to let her in on his secret.

For the present, though, he decided to leave her alone. He was pissing blood in any event, nature's way of telling him to pace it. And as luck would have it, today was a work day, meetings with the king's representatives- buyers, sellers and business-development types- pitting their bargaining abilities against his, a sort of clash of the haggling titans. And by the time he finished, it was almost time for another one of those infernal dinners, more like a theatre restaurant than royal banquet. Stepping out, dressed in his party clothes, he made sure his flunky locked the door, then looked up in time to see the old man, the gene engineer, in the corridor, all decked-out for the occasion himself. He nodded a greeting. How the doddering old Westerner would envy him, he thought. Had only he known, that he, Zhang, had his very own kick-ass showgirl locked up in his room.

Watson backed up, letting him pass, noting a deep cut over Chinese billionaire's swollen eyebrow. The overhang gave him the appearance of a primitive proto-human, an Australopithecine in fancy dress. The old man guessed, in a fit of naivety, that Zhang had simply fallen over drunk, never suspecting for a moment the crime-lord's predilection, one he shared by many of the ruthless ultra-rich, for pain and humiliation at the hands of a woman. In fact, Watson had noticed, more and more guests were turning up with injuries, from black eyes and split lips to bruises and abrasions.

Feeding time at the zoo again, another banquet in the great hall, more drinking and more carousing, more gorging on sex and food. As member of the king's inner circle, Watson took up a position to the far left of the group, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the Englishman, Devine. Quite by accident, he found himself on the floor beside an amiable-looking Westerner, who nudged his arm and held out his hand. "Hamish Baker," he announced, "Aussie consul general."

Australian. Watson bit back his surprise and gave the proffered hand a Woodrow-Muntian look of disdain. "Charmed, I'm sure." he said, arranging himself on a thick silk cushion.

"Pleasure's all mine." Baker smiled, withdrawing his hand, not in the least put off. "You must be Lord Woodrow-Munt."

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"You know," Baker said, like a boy from little school bragging about his big school connections, "I'm a close personal friend of His Majesty the King. He's always on the blower. We've got close to forty billion in joint projects in Ab Aldafra. If you ever need his ear, just let me know."

"If I ever need his ear, my dear boy," Watson dryly replied, "I'll just clone one."

Baker laughed, then signalled a nearby servant for a pitcher of wine. "I hear you're setting up a lab in the free trade zone."

"Nothing like commercial in confidence." Watson-Munt grunted. "What's it to you?"

"Well," Baker shrugged, "you never know. My government may be interested in helping."

Watson reared back. "Helping?" he glared. "Me? I'm not sure which Woodrow-Munt you think you might be talking to, but my personal wealth is worth more than your country's GDP. I don't need your help."

Baker shrugged, not in the least bit chastened. "You never know. My government's all about innovation and incentives. With a minimum of red tape and generous concessions. Keep it in mind. A production facility in the Southern Hemisphere might come in handy. And if you were to oblige me with some of your product..."

Watson nodded knowingly, suddenly seeing the business pitch for what it was... just one more hopeful trying to jump the queue.

"Oh ohh..." Baker said, head down, eyes up, "here comes His Majesty."

A sustained burst of automatic gunfire from a bunch of weapons boomed through the hall as the king made his usual entrance. The crowd sat in silence through the evening's dissertation- the sanctity of mercy and forbearance in the face of victory- before the gorging and debauchery commenced.

Partway through the feast, a harrowed-looking runner sidled into the hall, to be passed from sentinel to sentry, one by one down the line, until he arrived, bowing deeply, in front of His Majesty. Hands raised, waiting while they were swabbed then delicately dried, King Abdulaziz looked the quaking messenger up and down. "What is the meaning of this interruption?"

"Your Majesty," the runner huffed as he dropped to his knees, "pray forgive me. I bring word from the commander, Major Siddiqi."

"Indeed?" the king glowered. "It is beneath the Major to attend himself?"

"Sire. We captured a spy. The Major himself is standing watch over him."

"Spy?"

"He was hiding up on the mountain. He had a transmitter."

The king's nostrils flared and his face turned beetroot red, as he muttered under his breath, "Rashiid!" He looked at the runner. "Where is General Moussa? Where is the head of island security? Why has this been left to his minions?"

"The General was checking on his men at the barracks." the runner quavered. "He sends word he is on his way."

The king waved his flunkies away- hand washers and nose blowers, food testers and ass wipes, then beckoned the head of household security. "Captain! This function is over. Send the VVIPs back to their accommodations. Summon the litter-bearers and have them take me back to my chambers. If that little bastard wants to play, then let's play."

"Little Bastard, Sire?"

"Hurry. Clear the hall. And tell the guests, I bid them good night. Tell them to rest well for the celebrations tomorrow."

"Celebrations?"

"To my chambers, Captain!"

"As you please, My Liege." the officer bowed, backing away, before gesturing to his NCOs and passing the message. Party's over. Get these VVIPs out of here and back to their rooms. With as much Bolivian nose candy and MDMA as they desire. Tell them, eat, drink, puke, fuck, blow and get the fuck out of here. Good night, good luck and don't let the tent flap hit you in the ass.

On his feet, Watson saw Devine heading his way so turned on his heel and dived into the crowd. Swept along with the current, he soon found himself at the entrance and slipped away into the night.

Almost unable to believe his incredible luck, the Chinese ivory merchant, Zhang Jingli, collared his servant, then hastened back to his apartment. Letting himself in, he found the young Western girl in her hastily washed and still damp slip, restlessly pacing the floor. Like some big cat in its cage, she'd created a well-worn circuit, from living room to bedroom then outside to the courtyard. Around and around, the displacement energy of a frightened, frustrated captive. Her face fell as Zhang closed the door and stood with his back to it, staring.

Meanwhile, back in his chambers, the king settled his bulk onto the ornate, gilded throne that had been quickly prepared for the audience. He gave a nod, and a clutch of black-uniformed troops hurried into the room, pulling up in front of him to hurl a terrified young soldier down onto the floor. The troops fell back, bereft of their firearms but wielding long, heavy batons. "You!" the king snarled, "What is the meaning of this?"

The soldier went to raise his head, but was stopped short by the blow of a baton across his shoulders. "Forgive me, Your Majesty." the young man slurred, jaw broken and teeth dislodged. "But I have no idea what I've done wrong."

"DONE WRONG?" the king thundered. "Skulking around on the sacred mountain? What were you doing there?"

"I beg you, Sire. I was just following orders."

"Orders? Whose orders? Who sent you?"

"I don't know Your Majesty, I don't know. I am just a simple comms tech, just doing my job. Just setting up a base station. Those were my orders."

"WHOSE ORDERS?" the king raged. "WHO SENT YOU? HOW DID YOU GET HERE?"

"On the ship, Your Majesty, with all the others."

The king looked around for something to throw then turned to head of household security. "Who found this man?"

"A couple of enlisted men, My Liege. They went to climb the mountain, in honour of Salman the Great." In fact, they'd managed to get their hands on a serving girl and were looking for somewhere to rape her. "And when they reached the summit, they found this man. Under camouflage netting. Working a transmitter."

A member of the security detail took a step forward, then emptied the contents of a black duffel bag onto the floor. Smashed electronic equipment skittered across the tiles.

"YOU!" the king boomed, "Traitor! Who were you communicating with?"

"Your Majesty..." the trooper wailed, "I was communicating with no one. The transmitter was only a relay hub, nothing more."

A commotion nearby announced the arrival of General Hussain Moussa, Commander in Chief of Island Security. Unceremoniously dragged away from the evening's ass-rape spectacular, he marched into the king's private chambers, scowl on his face, hand on his gun. On seeing him enter, the hapless prisoner all but swooned with relief. At last, someone in a position of authority who could straighten out this little misunderstanding. It was the general who had sent him, after all, through the chain of command.

General Moussa took a knee. "Your Majesty." he bowed, "A thousand apologies. I was busy reviewing tomorrow's security. I came as fast as I could."

"Rise, General Moussa. Looks like some of your troops trapped a rat up on the mountain."

Moussa rose, as commanded, and walked over to the quaking private. One eye was swollen shut, and his face caked with blood from a beating. Circling the youth, Moussa kicked through the remains of the electronics. He looked at the king. "This equipment is Thales. This man is Southern Alliance."

Southern Alliance? Whispers of surprise rippled through the room, as the injured lad looked up with an expression of bare-faced dismay.

"Are you sure?" the king frowned, having convinced himself already who was behind it.

"They are the only ones who use this French garbage. We've had reports of manoeuvres on the border. Nothing overt, but they appear to be taking advantage of your absence. This cur was obviously sent to keep track of your movements."

The king rearranged his massive frame on the throne. "You!" he ordered, "Dog! Speak up. Is this true? Are you Southern Alliance?"

"Your Majesty, NO!" the lad pleaded, "No! I have nothing to do with the Southern Alliance."

The king gripped the arms of the throne and heaved himself forward. "THEN WHO SENT YOU?"

The trooper looked at Moussa, pleading silently for help. They'd all been sworn to secrecy at the briefing. On pain of death. But to withhold from the king himself?

The king roared, "SPEAK!"

"Your M... M... Majesty," the trooper stammered as Moussa drew his weapon, "I was sent by... I was sent..."

A single gunshot boomed through the chambers and the trooper toppled, dead, face-first onto the floor. "Dog!" Moussa snarled, "I will not have you sully the ears of my king with your filthy lies."

King Abdulaziz looked from Moussa to the body and back again. "Why, General, in god's name, did you do that?"

"This vermin is Southern Alliance," Moussa replied, "as the investigation shall prove. His uniform is Southern Alliance, his equipment is Southern Alliance, as are his disrespect and treachery. My Liege, your well-being is my first and only priority and I shall stop at nothing... nothing... to protect you." Moussa jerked his head at the 4 startled squaddies, nervously hefting their batons. "You men! Get this Southern swine down to the hospital. Have the doctor inspect the body for any hidden devices. Sire, I beg your leave, so I may stand up extra patrols, in case any more surprises are roaming the island."

The king nodded, then waved him away, still rattled by the sudden execution. That young soldier had been on the brink of spilling the beans. "Do as you see fit, General. As always, I am relying on you to keep not just your sovereign, but his honoured guests all safe from harm."

"My Liege," Moussa bowed, "As always it is my honour to serve you."

The detachment departed, dragging the body behind them, and stewards swooped in to clean up the mess- blood and brain matter, smashed electronics. All swept up, swabbed and mopped into oblivion. The king snapped his fingers and the head of household security leant in. "Summon my Seers." the king ordered. "If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it is they."

Nearby, in the only other residence permitted on the very top floor, the three wise men were busy kicking back after a hard day's soothsaying. The lavish three-bedroom apartment, complete with its own prayer/divination/living-room, overlooked the flank of the island with a view of the moonlit waters beyond. Clad in nought but expensive silk boxers, Fat Cleric lay back in the embrace of a padded recliner, feet up, smoking, watching his buddy, Reverend Rake, on the receiving end of a spirited blow job, administered by a beautiful young fashion model. A teenaged Travelling Wife, a model from Austria, stark naked and slender as a whip, with a head full of hair like fine spun-gold. One hand on the young woman's head, following the motion as she bobbed up and down, Reverend Rake took a long, bubbling suck on the stem of a sheesha pipe. Holding his breath for the count of ten, he blew a dense plume of hashish-laced, apple-flavoured smoke into the air.