Kings in Conflict

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.

I confronted him, asked him how he could be such a man and why. He shrugged and said, "Because I chose the life and have earned the power. Don't ever ask me about my business, Jessie. Just know that it pays for the life of luxury you are now able to enjoy."

Then he grabbed and twisted my arm. "And never, ever be disloyal to me. Otherwise you will learn the meaning of suffering."

I could not doubt his words. His tone left no room for disbelief. His treatment of me changed after that day. He was frequently cold, distant, and now it was evident I was seeing his real face. His lovemaking did not change- he was still intent on giving me pleasure and taking it from me, however he made clear that I was no longer able to say no. Sometimes he would mark me as his by pressing my skin hard with fingers or teeth. Always enough to bruise, in places I could not display but would not forget. And he reminded me I had a reputation as a soiled dove and not much of a legitimate employment history. He had given me the good life I enjoyed, and in seconds he could take it away.

For a few years, I took advantage of that life. A man showers you with riches, it is easy to accept the gifts. You know from where the wealth comes, but you ignore it. You don't know the victims, and you can't stop the offender. You soon learn he has enough connections, legal and illegal, to keep himself wealthy and free. But it wears on you over time, the guilt, and eventually you want to move away.

For me, I ran to this club and similar places. I remember times when I worked in them, enjoyed better men than James Kurtz, or Lord Jim, as he is sometimes called. Men of better character with better hearts. Maybe not as good in bed, but at least they showed their true selves to me up front and without question. And they did not seek to hurt people, no matter what a confused soul might assume. Yes, such men loved vice, as did I, but they were not corrupt, not evil. The man I married was something else.

While she reflected on the life she had and the life she had left, she stared into space and rejected advances from a few more bar patrons. "I shouldn't be here," she decided eventually. It was pointless. She had chosen a life as a crime boss's wife, and he would never let her go back. So Jessie got up and walked out of the bar by the back door. She was worried about leaving through the front even though she had entered that way. Her husband stopped at Rovers now and then- he was invested in it after all. Yes, the owner hadn't recognized her, but if someone else did and word got back...

Leaving by the back door was her third mistake. The first was underestimating Jim Kurtz's sociopathy. The second was not noticing the woman who quietly trailed her outside.

The back door of Rovers led to a small designated smoking area. It was fenced off from the alley behind the club. Patrons could enjoy a cigarette there before departure through an exit door with no alarm. It was deserted at the moment. Jessie relaxed- no one would bother her here, or so she believed. She decided to pause and enjoy a smoke to stave off her disappointment and disgust with her life.

That was her fourth mistake.

A voice behind her asked, "May I have a light?"

Jessie turned and saw the white-haired woman in the tan pantsuit from the bar standing behind her. Very close behind her, smiling calmly with her mouth closed. She had an unlit cigarette extended in one hand.

Jessie had just lit her own cigarette and taken a few puffs. She shrugged. It was easy to aid others in their vices. She put her cigarette in one of the nearby ashtrays, then moved close to the other woman and flicked her lighter on.

"Do I know you?" she asked as the other woman lit her smoke.

She nodded. "I work for your husband. And I have a present from my boss."

Before Jessie could scream or move away, the woman's hand moved. Something gleamed in the light. Too late, Jessie realized she was wearing fancy black gloves that along with her actions made her profession clear. Jessie's fate was sealed by three quick precise stabs. The first pierced her right lung, the second her left, the last her heart. The cuts were expert and delivered so quickly she had no chance to escape or fight back.

Her slayer smiled wider as she cradled Jessie's corpse and slid it to the ground. Her pearly white teeth gleamed brighter than her knife. In that moment, the killer felt connected to her inspirations. She did not linger long on the scene, though. That would be improper. Instead she dipped her gloves in the scarlet billows spreading from her victim's chest, so she would remember taking her life. Then she left the body on the ground and hurried away.

The deed was done.

***

Inside Out Lounge.

Eight Years Later.

Doug Ramsay was enjoying himself with two intimate friends. They were lying naked in his penthouse bed, bodies interlocked. For the past hour, they had been embracing each other, exchanging kisses and caresses, crying out with the pleasure of their acts.

He was a thirty year old American immigrant to London who spoke with a faux British accent he practiced to correct a speech impediment and put people at ease. He was an entrepreneur who had founded and ran his own lounge slash love hotel, entertaining people from all of London's social circles. Physically he had dark blonde hair and short beard, light blue eyes, handsome features, and a stocky dancer's body. Doug's mind and morals were neurodivergent. An introvert by nature, yet willing to connect with those who wanted to appreciate him. In this reality, he was blessed with wealth from legal gambling and bestselling science fiction thriller novels along with connections to many loyal friends.

Two of those friends writhed their bodies against his in the current moment. Jodie Lee Nichols was a lithe freckled Australian brunette with a pleasant open demeanor and face. She was the assistant manager of Doug's business. She had once enjoyed past lives as his high school girlfriend and a decorated agent in the Australian Special Air Service. A tattoo on her inner thigh of a winged dagger and "Who Dares Wins" commemorated the latter days. Jodie Lee had been a covert ops specialist similar to James Bond. She retired after a mission went bad and her unit was disgraced. They had succeeded, but the victory was pyrrhic and Jodie Lee no longer wanted that life. She was only a few months older than Doug, at least she got out before she was twenty-five. And now she enjoyed a life that paid better and was safer most of the time. She still operated as a private secret agent on occasion, on her terms now. Usually, though, she was the personnel manager for Doug Ramsay and his business partner slash security chief, a large bald native South African known professionally as Clarke. Both men were her regular lovers. Jodie Lee was riding Doug's shaft reverse cowgirl at the moment, while squeezing his thighs and enjoying a sapphic grind with their intimate threesome partner Tess Winfield.

The second woman in the bed was a black-haired Caucasian woman in her early thirties from New York City. A doctor by trade, she operated a small clinic in the same building as Doug's love hotel. Like Jodie Lee, she was formerly employed by the United Nations. They had worked together in an anti-terrorist unit for many months. Tess had patched Jodie Lee up after multiple missions and been intimate with her many times. They were cuddling close now, pressing their breasts against each other's. Tess was petite, so Jodie Lee was bent over to kiss her lips. Both women had medium length curls that intermingled as they embraced. The sight of their bodies and mouths entwined was arousing to Doug, who thrust up and down in Jodie Lee while caressing both women's charms. They rubbed each other's bodies and his as well.

"Fuck her good, Doug," Tess encouraged, smiling. "Then you can fuck me next."

Doug was enthused by that offer. He had first connected with Tess during their college days. She had gone to Columbia University while her high school best friend and lover Lisa Coleman had attended the University of Texas at Austin and ended up dating Doug for several years. Lisa was a proud ethical slut and Tess was the same. Lisa enjoyed intimate experiences with Doug, so naturally she had introduced him to her many girlfriends, Tess included. They had visited her three times in New York, enjoyed threesomes and exhibition couplings with one another. Tess had enjoyed loving them both. Then she had finished medical school and her residency and gone into Doctors Without Borders. That life connected her with the military agents of many nations, including Jodie Lee. They now worked together again as associates of Doug Ramsay. They were pleased to enjoy regular intimate activities with him, each other, and many other people who worked at Inside Out.

Tess moved around Jodie Lee, kissed Doug hard and fast. Then she placed her cunt over his lips. Doug at once took the hint and extended his tongue between her petals. Tess wore a light patch of curls on her snatch that presented little obstacle to a lover's attention. Jodie Lee was shaved clean in contrast. Both women had tan nipples on their large breasts.

They writhed against one another, licking, thrusting, caressing. Tess embraced Jodie Lee from behind while letting Doug lick her loins. He meanwhile thrust into Jodie Lee's folds. Their hands roamed over each other, fingers frequently brushing together. Cries of passion echoed from their mouths. Fingers interlaced and twitched.

Doug's tongue hit a particular spot within Tess, then twined about her clit. She let out a deep moan and let herself reach the peak of pleasure. Jodie Lee climaxed in the next instant, laughing as she achieved joy. Doug clenched his own loins, then released a small amount of sperm into the condom which sheathed his manhood. Jodie Lee could still feel his eruptions, and she increased her own movements with the tremors. Tess slid off Doug's face in the afterglow, relaxed beside them while Jodie Lee twisted herself around and embraced Doug, kissed his lips.