The Molly Ch. 02

Welcome to Part 2. If you enjoyed Part 1, and I hope you did, please note that this episode is a lot less fun than the previous one. That's just how I write. Things will get more fun later on, but not yet; I always feel that happiness is all the more piercing when it's been earned.

*

It was a warm summer's night all over London. The streets of Whitechapel were crowded and noisy; the air full of hawkers' cries, laughter, shouting, argument and vilification. The streets smelled, too; of mud and unwashed bodies and the smoke from the brazier of the baked potato seller and the rich whiff of soup and pudding steam from the kitchens, and underlying it all the rich smell of horse shit, and beneath that, the sharp stink of human shit and piss. The people crossed and recrossed the street, some of them arm in arm, laughing and singing, some of them alone and staggering with drink, some of them just alone.

The man in the frock coat and top hat who was threading his way through the crowd knew this part of town well. He was a regular around here. The cornerboys, who would normally have jeered a man like him, or at least thrown a few rocks at his hat, were bored by the sight of him by now. The grafters knew better than to try and finger him; it was known that the cove carried a revolver, and while he'd never used it and had been dead polite about the whole thing, he'd had a look in his eye. They knew better than to get something started with that customer.

The gentleman was walking apparently at random, but in fact with purpose. He headed off the brightly lit street and into an alleyway, from which he turned left and then right into another alley, where shadowy figures leaned in doorways and soft voices called out to him.

"Evening darlin! Cool your heels?"

"How's your poor feet? Fancy a frisk, sir?"

He smiled at them, but passed on. The girls looked pretty enough in the dim light of the doorway, but get them indoors and you would see the damage done by gin and bad food and a way of life that had them going grey at twenty and used up by thirty -- if, indeed, they lived that long. It wasn't long since the man they called Jack the Ripper had slashed the throats and torn the bellies of half a dozen women in this district.

The gentleman passed down the street, his eyes searching, looking out for the right one. He wasn't sure what the right one would be, but he was certain that he'd know it when he found it. He was something of a connoisseur.

He was just about to leave the street, and was passing under an arch, when a soft voice from the darkness spoke.

"Nice night, sir, how'll you have it?"

He stopped and turned.

"That's a good question," he said. "I think a glass of whiskey would be fortifying. Would you care to join me?"

Out of the darkness stepped a young soldier, slightly built, with narrow shoulders -- champagne shoulders, thought the gentleman approvingly. The youth wore a red Guardsman's tunic with black trousers, and a uniform cap. His hair was pale red, cropped short, and his face was young and round and smooth. His eyelashes were long, and his eyes were pale blue. His skin was pale and lightly freckled, and his smile was shy, but his gaze was steady and unafraid. Good teeth, the gentleman noted. The soldier was slim and boyish, and his bum was tight in the black uniform pants. He couldn't have been older than fifteen. He was absolutely perfect.

"I'd be very much obliged to you, sir," said the young soldier in a soft voice. He was inspecting the gentleman, who was tall and in his late forties, with an impressive brown beard. Quite a handsome devil, thought the young soldier. Obviously flush. Come down here to do a bit of leg-lifting with the poor of the parish.

"Perhaps not in one of the local hostelries," the gentleman said. "I dislike the atmosphere." Bugger, thought the soldier, there goes that drink. Oh well! Time to get on your knees and earn your supper.

"If you'd care to walk a ways with me, sir," said the soldier, stepping closer to the gentleman, "I'm sure I could oblige you."

"That sounds very tempting," said the gentleman with a smile, "but I have a better idea. I am in point of fact truanting from a small party of friends, who I know would be delighted if you could join us." He waved an arm, and the soldier looked and saw a cab drawn up some yards away.

Careful, said a voice in the back of the soldier's mind. You could be in big trouble. You don't want to do that. But the thought of money and food and drink was extremely tempting. The soldier hadn't eaten since breakfast, and that had been a bit of stale bread and some cold tea.

"Join you, sir?" said the soldier, stalling for time.

"We have some excellent wine," said the gentleman mildly, "and some delicious plovers. Do you like plovers?"

"I've never 'ad 'em, sir," said the soldier, and the hunger was drowning out the warning. Plovers? Sort of little bird, weren't they? The thought of hot meat juices and rich dark wine was overwhelming. And what would I have to do? Suck a few pricks? Isn't it worth it? "But I should like to try them."

"Excellent," said the gentleman with an indulgent smile. 'Step this way, young man.'

The gentleman and the young soldier walked towards the carriage and got in. The coachman gave a cry and lashed his whip, and the carriage rolled off into the night.

Casual questioning yielded the information that the soldier's name was Spencer; that he was, indeed, only fifteen years old; and that he was a drummer-boy in the Welsh Guards. When asked about what battalion he belonged to, however, he grew vague. The gentleman didn't mind. Some chaps liked to feel that they were plugging a real soldier, but real Guardsmen did not hang about in Whitechapel, as the gentleman knew perfectly well. If you wanted to fuck a real Guardsman, then certain clubs and certain Turkish Baths would accommodate you. This boy was a good actor, but he was an actor nevertheless. That suited the gentleman.

And the boy certainly was exceptionally handsome, the gentleman thought. His chin and upper lip were smooth and free of fluff, his face was sweet and innocent, his skin was clear and his bottom was pert and sharply curved in those tight black trousers. The gentleman could hardly wait to have those trousers off, to view the lad as God had made him, to hear his cries as they broke him in . . .

The gentleman had to remind himself that he was the facilitator of this, not the protagonist. He shifted in his seat to manage his erection.

The soldier, who was staring out of the window and replying as monosyllabically as possible to the questions, noticed the gentleman shifting in his seat. Oh bloody hell. He's already off. They're going to want my arse. Well, they can stop with that. I'll have to slip out sharpish if they try any funny stuff. I'll suck 'em off, but they're not mollying me. You're a flaming idiot, said the warning voice. What have you let yourself in for? You against them? You wouldn't stand a chance. Yes, I would. Didn't I give that gent the slip that time down Blackwall way, when he wanted to take my arse? Bloody horrible old bastard. We call it the Irish way, my dear, he said. I bloody showed him, didn't I? Kicked the bugger in the balls and legged it. So shut up! I can handle meself.

The carriage pulled up outside a fashionable house in Belgravia. The gentleman stepped down and ushered the soldier out. They went down into the area and entered by the basement door.

The gentlemen led the soldier through the servants' quarters. There didn't seem to be any servants about, which the soldier thought odd, but after all it was nearly two in the morning. They entered the main part of the house and went up the carpeted stairs. The house was splendidly decorated. The gentleman enjoyed the look on the young soldier's face, as he stared about him, wide-eyed. He really was a lovely boy, thought the gentleman. Quite a waste, to hand him over to the others like this. The gentleman would have been perfectly happy to have the lad himself, and paid him off handsomely. But this was a favour for an old friend. And honour had to be maintained.

The gentleman led the drummer boy to a pair of double doors.

"My friends are in here," he said. "I hope you can accommodate us all."

The soldier looked up at him, cocky and cheeky, like all his sort.

"I don't think you gents have anything to suggest that I can't manage," he said.

Was there a slight look in the boy's eyes? Was it just bravado? Was he, in fact, as nervous as he should have been? The gentleman smiled. He was very interested to see how the lad would handle himself.

The doors were flung open.

Inside, a long table was manned by a dozen young men, in various stages of drunkenness. The port decanter was moving around the table at speed, while they replenished their glasses. The seltzer bottle was also in use, and servants stepped forward with whisky and brandy. The air was thick with cigar smoke. There was the evidence of a long and sumptuous dinner; carcases of fowl, half-emptied bowls of trifle, half a joint of beef on the sideboard. The gentleman glanced at the drummer boy, and saw the lad's eyes light up with hunger.

A cheer came from the end of the table.

"Robert! You return! And with an utterly charming companion!" cried a voice.

"Yes," said the gentleman. "Allow me to introduce my friend. This is young Spencer. He tells me he's in the Welsh Guards."

There was a ripple of derisive laughter. The young drummer boy flushed, but knew better than to protest. The gentleman who'd been addressed as Robert admired his self-possession.

"Well," said one young man, "we're always glad to offer hospitality to one who's serving in Her Majesty's Forces, aren't we, chaps?" There was more laughter. The young man stood up. He was a good-looking type with a strong, long face, in his late twenties, clean-shaven. "Step forward, young fellow," he cried, brandishing his cigar. "We're all friends here. Help yourself to some food, you look famished. Eddy? Get one of those confounded wenches of yours to give the lad something to eat. He looks half-starved."

The young man at the head of the table rose, looking diffident. He, too, had a moustache, but he had dark circles under his eyes and a weak chin. He gestured vaguely to one of the servants, who bowed and left the room.

The boy walked up to the table.

"Much obliged to you, sir," he said. "I am a bit peckish, as it happens."

The man who was standing burst out laughing.

"Oh, Robert," he wheezed, "he's priceless! Where did you find him?"

"In Whitechapel," said the urbane older gentleman, still standing by the door. "I hope he comes up to your standards, Stephen."

"He's a perfect jewel," said the man called Stephen, and looked at the drummer boy fondly.

"Here, boy," he said. "Come. I won't bite." He held out a hand, and stared into the boy's eyes.

Careful, said a voice in the soldier's head. This one's sharp.

The soldier went over and smiled at Stephen, who chucked him under the chin. They gazed at each other for a moment, then Stephen leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

There were whoops and cheers from the others. The soldier took it. This Mr. Stephen was a good kisser, whatever else about him. The drummer boy smiled as Mr. Stephen drew back.

"My," Mr. Stephen breathed. "Lips like honey. Robert, you have excelled yourself."

The drummer boy felt proud. A chair was drawn up, and a plate of lukewarm roast beef was set in front of him. The gentleman was pleased to see that he had better manners than to dig into it. The lad ate daintily, his eyes following the conversation, and he made sure to wipe his chin and not fill his mouth.

"What's your name, boy?" asked Mr. Stephen.

"Edwin," said the boy, chewing the fine meat with relish.

"Edwin! There's a name to get the blood racing," said another man, puffing on a pipe and watching the drummer boy with narrowed eyes.

"Edwin Spencer. Tell us, Edwin Spencer," said Mr. Stephen, "you enjoy the company of gentlemen?"

"Very much so, sir," said Edwin and smiled.

"I'm sure you do. I should imagine you're quite the popular lad, back at your barracks." There was a rumble of laughter. Edwin flushed.

"I know how to handle meself, sir," he said.

"Ah, but do you?" said Mr. Stephen, lighting a cigarette. "I mean, Edwin -- do you know what it means to lie with another man?"

The drummer boy looked at all their faces. They were watching him intently. Careful, came the voice. Better talk 'em out of this one.

"I 'ave done, sir," Edwin said stiffly. "I didn't care for it."

They chuckled. "Didn't care for it?" said Mr. Stephen in mock horror. "But, dear boy, I'm sure you've just never had a good partner! Look at you, no older than sixteen, and never known the true joy of penetration per ano! Gentlemen, we can't allow this condition to continue!"

"I'm sorry, sir," Edwin said, moving back his chair and looking stolidly at the tablecloth. "'Fraid I don't practise it."

"What do you mean, you don't practise it?" said another man, somewhat indignantly. "That's a fine way to repay our hospitality."

"Very sorry, gents," said Edwin nervously, standing and backing towards the door. "Much obliged to you for the food an' all, but if you could see your way to letting me out . . ."

A pair of strong hands grasped the boy by the shoulders. He twisted around and looked up into the bearded, inscrutable face of the middle-aged gentleman.

"I think," said the gentleman mildly, "you had better cooperate. It will be a lot less painful if you don't struggle." The other men were rising and coming towards them. Mr. Stephen was unbuttoning his waistcoat.

"No," said the drummer boy, getting really frightened. "Please, gents, don't, I'm sorry, I'll do anything, but not that -- I'll suck you off, I'll frig you, but please don't make me do that!"

The gentleman steered the soldier towards a long red chaise-longue that stood against one wall. The soldier let himself be guided for a couple of steps, then he twisted and slipped out of the gentleman's grasp, and made a dash for the door. He didn't get far. Mr. Stephen dashed forwards and caught him round the waist.

"Now, now, lad," he murmured, as the soldier thrashed and cursed, "just remember, it's a lot worse if you struggle."

"Get your fucking hands off me!" the soldier cried. Two other men came over and grabbed his arms and legs. He was carried over to the chaise-longue and held down on it. Mr. Stephen removed his own waistcoat and slipped his braces over his shoulders, then began to unbutton his trousers.

"Please," the boy begged, "please don't fuck me, gents, I'm only a poor orphan, please, in the name of mercy, don't make me do something unnatural . . ."

Mr. Stephen laughed, as they rolled the boy onto his stomach.

"Unnatural, quotha!" he chuckled. "Lad, it was common practice in the days of Socrates. But you probably wouldn't have heard of him, would you? You ignorant little scamp."

"Shall we debag him?" asked the man who was holding the boy's legs, grinning up at the others.

"By all means," cried Mr. Stephen. "Let us gaze upon the work of God and find it pleasing to behold." The man unbuttoned the boy's trousers at the side, and the boy cried out. He squirmed and writhed as the hands took his trousers and pulled them slowly down over his narrow hips. Then the boy's shirttails were lifted, uncovering his exquisite, round, jutting behind. The boy sobbed.

"What a piece of work is a man," breathed Mr. Stephen, and the others murmured their agreement. "Tell me, Eddy, have you ever seen such a sumptuous arse?"

"It's very lovely, Jem," said the weak-chinned man, with a slight stammer. The boy looked at him through his tears; the weak-chinned man was sweating, peering over Mr. Stephen's shoulder.

"Oh Christ," the boy sobbed. "Please, let me go, please . . ."

"Turn him over," said Mr. Stephen. "I want to get him hard first, before I fuck him."

The boy cried out, a wordless moan of misery, and they rolled him onto his back, revealing his . . .

Mr. Stephen let out a gasp of horror. The men stepped back in consternation. For, instead of a young, soft, hairless cock and balls, the soldier had nothing there, except a tuft of ginger pubic hair. The skin was smooth, all the way from the belly button down between the pale thighs, where it formed itself into a pale pink ridge before disappearing between the legs. They stared at it in silence. The only sound was the soldier's bitter sobbing.

"Oh my God," said Mr. Stephen in disgust. "It's a female."

"Robert?" said the weak-chinned young man, puzzled. "What's the meaning of this?"

"I . . . I am deeply sorry, gentlemen," the bearded man said hesitantly. "I had no idea, I assure you. I sincerely believed it to be a boy."

"Well, it's not," said Mr. Stephen. The soldier was hiding her face with her hands, crying into them.

"I suppose the little beast had us all fooled, though," said Stephen, staring down at the half-naked figure with distaste. "Not your fault, old man. I'm afraid, however, that's my appetite spoiled." Mr. Stephen sighed, and slid his braces back on. He walked over to a chair and picked up his waistcoat.

"No reason for the rest of us not to have some fun, though, what?" said the man holding the soldier's legs.

"Please yourselves," said Mr. Stephen indifferently, buttoning up his waistcoat.

"Let's strip her," said the man holding the soldier's arms. The others nodded, and as the girl sobbed quietly, her boots, socks and trousers were pulled off, followed by her uniform tunic and shirt. Beneath the shirt, her chest was tightly wrapped with a long white bandage.

"Ahh," said one of the men. 'Cunning.' They unwound the bandage, and revealed her soft and small white breasts. Now that she was naked, it was obvious that the girl was at least eighteen. Her cropped red hair had helped the illusion. They let her go. She huddled naked in a corner of the sofa, her face red and wet, trying to cover herself.

"Please let me go," the girl sobbed. "Please, gents, I didn't mean no harm."

"What is your name?" said the bearded man sternly.

"Jane,' she sniffed. "Jane Tarvey."

"You have cruelly deceived us, Jane Tarvey," said the bearded man.

"I'm sorry, sir," she sobbed. "I was just trying to make a living. Please let me go and I swear I won't do it again."

"Let you go?" said the bearded man, as if this had never occurred to him. "Let you go? Child, you have not yet repaid your debt to us. Mr. Stephen has fastidious tastes, but I think you will find that the rest of us are not quite so choosy. We have you, and we mean to take you. Is that clear?"

The terrified girl's eyes widened. Her mouth opened in horror.

"Oh no," she cried, "no, oh Lord, gents, please, I'm ever so sorry, please, I beg you, don't . . . MMFFF!"

One of the men had gagged her with a napkin, which he tied behind her head. The other men pounced on her, and they stretched her naked white body out on the chaise-longue. She screamed into the gag, staring at them, her eyes bulging. The bearded man leaned close to her face.

"You beg us for mercy, but I do not forgive easily, Jane Tarvey. You will stay here, and we shall have our way with you until we are satisfied. You will wish you were dead, but before the end, you will be begging for more. You will be a different and a better person. It will be very much easier for you if you accept that this is to be your reality from now on. We have you. Your wishes, your desires, mean nothing. Serve us, and you will find your true purpose."

The girl stared back at him, thinking Oh Christ, oh Jesus fucking Christ, they were completely mad, that was it, she was in a house of madmen, oh God save me, what is he doing, he's opening my legs, he's on top of me, I can feel his . . .