Spillane, Me, & The Trans Swede

"Sure, you can bet your two fab tits I'll be back."

I disentangled her hand from my balls and grabbed my clothes. She kissed me with a sticky sperm-laden kiss on the cheek, and I was out the door.

I carried my clothes as I ran out of her room and down the aisle toward the cashier.

I opened the folding door of the telephone booth and used the pay phone to call Mickey.

"Mick, I got the girl's address; I'll be up to you in a jiff. We'll find Diane down on Pier 39."

A half-hour later, Mick and I were in the Jag, the cool night air blowing our hair. I'd checked out the map before we left Hell's Kitchen. We made our way quickly to 39th Street Pier. God bless Marylyn's sweet ass; she had put us on the right road. Just down from the steep highway exit was the ferry.

I parked the car, and we headed for the gangplank, where a burly Haitian guard blocked the entrance or exit.

"We were sent to pick up Diane Baker," said Mick.

"No one enters or leaves the boat," said the guard dressed like a ninja with a sword belted to his waist.

Mick took out the paper the Swedish dish had given us and held it in front of the guard's face; the stationary made us look official.

The guard said, "Why didn't you show me that first? OK, go on up."

"Where would Diane Baker be?"

"Let me check the schedule. OK? You'll find her in the main room if she's here for the initiation. Go straight up the gangplank; at the top, take a left and follow the green arrows on the deck; they'll take you where you want to go."

We walked quietly up the wood and metal walkway that moaned and swayed under our weight.

"Try not to make any more noise than necessary," said Mick.

Once aboard the ship, we followed the green arrows. We could hear a drumbeat and a droning noise ahead of us. There was a strong odor of incense when we arrived at the entrance to a large room filled with purple smoke. At the door was an orderly who handed us orange robes. Once inside, the smoke began to dissipate, and we could see a group of five monks in scarlet robes with yellow sack hats holding a nude woman by her hands and feet, one supporting her head as they lowered her onto a wooden table.

I recognized the Maharishi from the clipping photo. He was short and very fat, partially nude. His sizeable dick and balls, painted red, hung out of the orange jumpsuit. His genitals were laced with the string.

"There he is Mick, the Maharishi." I pointed.

The boss man was heating a metal jig over a large can of burning sterno. I didn't understand what was happening, but Mick whispered,

"They are going to brand her."

Our eyes had habituated to the darkness when the woman at the center of the ceremony let out a terrible yell as the Maharishi pressed the red-hot branding iron into her plump rump. The smell of burnt skin was overpowering.

"Is that our girl? I asked.

The branded woman cried out, "Thank you, Master."

"No, that's not her. Diane is the fourth in line."

Mick had removed his extra clip from his 45 Colt service auto and was ready to eject six cartridges into a burning stereo can to his left.

"When these babies explode, we run forward, grab the girl and race her out of here."

From the movements of the 'Initiates,' I could tell they were drugged.

The Maharishi spoke in a high squeaky voice, in an Indian or Pakistani accent that was difficult to understand,

"We have branded the first supplicant," he announced. "Now we will attach the nipple rings."

He moved closer to the second squirming nude woman and grabbed her breast in his hand.

Two terrible loud painful screams followed as the nipple rings pierced her flesh, followed by wailing, "Thank you, Master."

They dragged the third woman from the line and placed her on a wooden table.

"We will now sew the vagina of the third supplicant so she can never offer her passion to any living man, only to the master who may at his whim remove her stitches for his or his lieutenant's pleasure.'

"This is getting crazy," said Mick. "This girl is so doped up that she feels no pain."

The terrible feat was accomplished several minutes later, but the supplicant fainted.

The Maharishi spoke, "We have saved our virgin for the next ordeal, she will now be my receptacle for my love organ, and she will bear me many sons and daughters."

A priest came forward and manipulated the Maharishi's penis, which grew so large we marveled that any woman could contain it.

"They must have slipped the dude some goat weed," muttered Mick.

The head honcho leaned back on his throne, and a priest attached a pear-shaped ring that looked like a small spear onto his huge penis' mushroom head. Diane Baker, completely nude, was held by two robed monks, positioned so her vagina would be impaled when lowered onto his erect organ.

That was when Mick tossed the .45 pistol brass cartridges into a Sterno torch burning near us.

.

Bang, crack, WAMM, the cartridges exploded.

In the confusion, we ran forward and grabbed Diane, hoisting the drugged girl onto our shoulders and dragging her out of the ballroom, down the deck to the gangplank where the beefy guard stood blocking our path.

Mick slipped his stainless steel Rolex band over his knuckles, and like a fastball pitcher taking a wind-up pitch, he slammed the big guy's jaw, cracking it. The guard fell, spitting out teeth but struggled to get back on his feet. At that moment, I gave him a powerful 'kick-off kick' right in the balls, and he collapsed.

"Good move," said Mick.

We half dragged Diane to the Jag and lifted her into the space behind the front seats. Since she was naked and the night was cold, Mick fished a blue blanket out of the trunk and covered her.

"Where to Boss?"

"Back to Beulah's place on 126th Street."

"You got it," I said, wheeling the sleek white Jag up the curved ramp's entrance to the Westside Highway, speeding toward Mick's favorite bordello.

When we got the niece covered with the blanket, upstairs to Beulah's place. I had an idea that a bordello was some fancy place, but this was just an apartment with a few rooms and a bunch of fold-out couches. A bar in one corner had a few bottles and glasses sitting there.

The young woman (19 years) started to come around, blinking her big eyes and yawning. She had no idea how close she'd come to losing her virginity.

"She's still a virgin," announced Mick, "taking your word that she was one when she left home, but 30 seconds more and that cunt skin would have been screaming one loud Hail Mary. I have no doubt," continued Micky, "Like most girls her age, now she'll give it away for free."

"You got that right, Micky," said Beulah. "Fucking is a force of nature."

"Does either of you wants a blow job before you goes."

"I'm good to go," said Mick. "And Jr. here was fucking a lady with a ten-inch stiffy."

"That sometimes happens to the best of us," said Beulah, who was standing next to a very pretty black girl wearing an orange halter and very short shorts.

Noticing my interest in her employee, she repeated, "She can suck your cock for free."

"Gee, thanks; maybe next time."

Before leaving, Mick poured himself a shot of bourbon and one for Beulah and one for me. We all downed the homemade sweet Southern Whisky, and Beulah telephoned the jazz club down to the street bar telling them to welcome us. When we got there, a young Miles Davis was blowing horn.

And so ended another Micky moment. Later that night, we left the club to return to Hell's Kitchen and Mick's small apartment. When we got there, I collapsed on the soft leather couch.

"So tell me," said Micky, seated in the green chair in front of me, "So tell me straight, although maybe you ain't straight no more. What the fuck went on with you and the Swede?"

"OK, I'll tell ya once, but I don't want to be asked about it ever again. What do you wanna know?"

"First off, did you give he/she a rim job?"

"You wanted the info, I got it for ya, and her asshole tasted just fine."

"Did you suck his dick?"

"Nope, she sucked mine."

"Well, did ya fuck her?"

"Yep, and it was the best fuck of my life; riding her ass and squeezing those big honkers was a blast."

"So you're done with her now."

"I didn't say that; I might return for seconds."

"If you do, you know you will end up on the long end of her big dick."

"Mickey, you know sometimes ya gotta pay the price of admission."

Micky punched me in the shoulder, "You're kidding me, aren't ya."

"Of course."

And so ended another exciting adventure with Mickey Spillane, but I wasn't kidding. I was silently thinking of Greta's huge dick, as big as a dirigible.

THE END TILL NEXT TIME

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