The Maltese Fuckin' Ch. 1

Ch. I: Murder in 33-B

Los Angeles, 1957

The moon hung low in the April sky and looked like it could have sweated all that rain. The streetlamps reflected up from the rain puddles lining 16th street in the City of Angels -giving water the edge found in fishnet stockings. Like the steam pouring from the street centers, the steam from the train station was white like a virgin's pillow -the mist of heat and travel.

"All aboard!" Came the cry from the tracks. Last minute travelers, and those fashionably late came running forward, tickets in hand. The conductor had a shy eye about him, like he knew something of a card trick and eyed the lagging passengers with the contempt saved for church goers who caught their neighbors sneaking of to speak-easies.

Hugo Kirby, caught sight of this conductor and made out his badge: W. Utley. "Not supposed to open that inside," was all Utley said, indicating Kirby's umbrella.

The umbrella was whipped shut with the bravado reserved for Old Western Towns and Kirby tipped his Fedora, "Suppose I ain't supposed to wear this inside, neither?"

And that's when the commotion started.

The storm of Madeline Cross. There she was, decked in a black party dress -a mockery of a funeral. Her lavish black hat. Her long black cigarette holder.

She was always surrounded by an entourage. Bodyguard. A personal photographer. Make-up girl. Hair girl. Secretary. All there to make sure that Miss Cross would be Miss 1958. Like she was Miss 1957 and Miss 1956 for Class Act magazine.

But she was alone tonight.

And Kirby would've missed her, but he knew that face anywhere. Burned into the back of his mind like the dying embers in the pipe of someone who'd kicked the habit long ago. He snorted at her.

"Mr. Kirby," she chimed, stepping toward him, staring up with that soft white skin. With those ruby red lips. With that touch of make-up on the cheek to make her look embarrassed. But the raised eyebrows gave her game away, she always acted like she'd be leaving with her marbles and yours when the game ended.

"Miss Cross," he said with his tongue in his cheek.

"Going to the end of the line?" She intoned, bemused.

"What about you?" He turned to face her. "Going all the way?"

She gave a husky chuckle, the kind that came from smoking cigarettes and drinking rum behind an officer's back. "Mr. Kirby..." She places a white glove on the handle, preparing to pull herself onto the train. "...if I'm going anywhere, it won't be with you."

"Las Vegas?" He asked with a dry smile.

He knew her ticket read the same. She narrowed an eye at Utley. "Sir. I have some personal items I would like to see carried into my room. 33-B."

"Right away, miss..." The crotchety man spoke with a touch of spittle. He blew a whistle and a black porter appeared in a sparkling uniform. He had no name tag. Few black workers did on this train line.

"Whatcha need, sir?" The man asked, too happy to help.

Madeline Cross looked the Negro man up and down with an eye lit somewhere between that of a scientist and good old fashioned lust. "I'm Miss Cross," she said, taking over the conversation and issuing instructions. "This bag... I want it in 33-B."

He nodded and went to speak, his large black hands taking up the bags.

"Excuse me," a skinny man -a family man asked from behind Madeline, "are there many Negro gentlemen working on this train?" It was obvious he was addressing Utley. Utley the conductor.

Kirby turned and observed the family. The father slim, the wife more slim, the daughter blooming, and the son reading a book. He quirked an eyebrow and turned back toward the black porter.

He was already boarding the train with the luggage, Madeline behind him. Utley stopped the porter, "Now, once this train is moving, you better get on to the back of the train like you're supposed to!"

"Yes sir," the porter beamed and ducked into the train, Madeline scooted up behind him.

Kirby listened a moment to Utley clearing up the matter of how many blacks were employed by the train and once the family was assured that these men wouldn't act like wild animals -that indeed the family would be safe, he boarded the train. Rolling his eyes, he thought Utley was the biggest bigot of the bunch.

Whew. Madeline. How long had it been.

Three years going on fifty.

The dining car was all full up and Kirby had to squint to find an empty seat. There were couples, families, lots of smoke and waiters with the elbow room of a seven year old girl. He smirked to himself, appreciating the omen before him. A train ride to Vegas and a blonde woman was sitting all alone.

"I'm Kirby," he said. "Hugo by the first name," he added after seating himself.

"That a fact?" She asked, not looking up from her menu to take in his charm.

"Going to Las Vegas?" He asked, knowing immediately afterward that he'd fumbled. She looked up with a dry smile. Blue eyes.

"Just put the bags down anywhere," Madeline said, turning to sit in her couch. She watched the porter set down her items as she smoked her cigarette.

He had some muscles, this specimen before her. It looked as if he would explode from the tight white shirt wrapped around him. She ashed on the floor.

"Yes ma'am," he said under his breath, choosing to set them to one side of the door. It was as if the weight of her bags or the ash on the floor that started the train.

Perfect timing. She smiled to herself.

"Have a name besides Porter?" She asked with a husk.

"Yes ma'am," he said, turning for the door. "James. James Hill."

"James Hill..." she said, standing to stop him. "Is it customary where you're from to introduce yourself and leave the room?"

"No ma'am," he said, turning to look over his white shoulder with his black skin. "I just got work to do is all. I didn't mean to be rude."

"Apologize then..." she muttered, approaching him.

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"I didn't hear you..." Madeline breathed, now close enough for him to feel her breath on his neck. "...maybe it's that rock n' roll... tell me again." She could smell the sweat from a hard day at the train yard. "Tell me here..." She pointed at her ear.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said lowly, pitching it to her ear.

She rubbed the front of his pants with a lazy hand.

"Not good enough." She said.

The blonde had lit a cigarette and had still to introduce herself. Kirby could see she was an uphill battle, but anything worth having was worth fighting for. "Miss..." he said, humorously. "...I hear the swordfish is to die for."

"Mrs..." she corrected him, "and what swordfish?"

"Oh, you mean the menu!" He beamed. "Haven't read it yet..."

"And you meant...?"

"I was crude."

She mocked him with wide eyes and leaned back heavily in her seat. Her red dress falling some from a bare shoulder. "I'm shocked," she intoned.

"Your turn to shock me." He raised an eyebrow.

And he felt her nylon coated toes between his legs. His eyes went to hers and he could see them narrow. As if the smoke was getting to her. As if there was a heat going all around.

"I can't do this, ma'am..." James panted into her ear. He felt her breasts heaving against him. Her forgotten cigarette smoldering in the rug of the train car.

"Your tip will be amazing," she managed, bringing a hand around his back. He could feel her rubbing herself against his leg, trying to raise her skirt. "I hear these rumors... guess lots of us white women do..."

Through his slacks, he could feel the difference in texture rubbing against him. Her nylons, her hard skirt, her soft naked thighs slowly becoming revealed. And her full lips gasped against his ear.

"Is it true?" She said with a touch of her nose.

"Is what true?" He asked, playing innocent.

Her fingers gripped his zipper and before he could protest, her cold fingers grasped something a lot warmer. And a lot bigger. "Oh god," she whispered. "This is what I want... do you read magazines? I'm famous you know. And I'm infamous when I don't get what I want."

It was heavy in her hand. And hard. Maybe poor James Hill had never felt a nice pussy like hers. Hell, there were a lot of white men who had never felt a nice pussy like hers. She didn't think of her private parts as ordinary or simple. It was a gift.

"I can't, ma'am," he said, sighing in surrender as she stroked him.

"How big is it, James?"

"I don't know." He said, honestly.

Madeline dropped to her knees to admire its size. Size was always impressive. Be it mountains, be it buildings. Be it black cock.

And she was impressed.

"Anything to drink, sir?" The waiter asked of Hugo Kirby. The toes were rubbing his groin, coaxing quite the erection from between his placid legs.

"Uhm..." He began, gazing up at the waiter.

The Blonde narrowed her eyes with amusement. "Just the check..." She said, eyeing Hugo. "...we brought out own."

Madeline had never sucked any man's cock before. Though she had demanded a number of men and quite a few women do something similar to herself. Her lips fell open and she gazed on the erection with a hungriness that seemed older than puberty. She looked up at James in appreciation.

He looked ready to leave, so she gave him a reason to stay. She closed her lips over the erection, letting the head fill her mouth. She ran her tongue beneath it and out of her mouth as if trying to bring more in.

That was no good.

But James Hill appreciated what she was attempting and began stroking her red hair. Her own fingers went beneath her raised skirt and began rubbing her panties. Maybe she needed the touch or maybe she wanted to gauge for herself just how wet she was.

It was as if she had already come.

As if she had already spilled.

And the thought of that really did make her come.

She slipped her mouth from the prick and groaned.

The Blonde was laughing. Hugo was trying to figure out what was so funny.

He didn't have a room.

He was coach.

And she was married.

There was nowhere on this earth they could conceivably be alone.

"Where are we going?" He asked, praying this wasn't one of those come-fuck-me-while-my-husband-watches deals like they had back east. He was never up for performing in front of others. Maybe that's why things had gone sour with Madeline. Or was it his hair? He couldn't remember which.

"Your room!" She chirped.

"I haven't got a room..." He said with a shrug. The type of shrug that he'd given on a playground years before. She leaned up against a wall. The door there said 33-B.

And the other door... only feet away said: BROOM CLOSET.

She sucked on her pearl necklace, glancing between him and the door. Her smile clued him in.

"Put it in my pussy..." Madeline breathed, her breasts pushed into the couch, a cushion rubbing her chin. "...put it right in my white pussy..."

James now had his pants off. And walked toward her skirted ass holding his larger penis.

She felt the length of it touch the top of her skirt. She knew that wasn't a forearm or a banana. She knew that was the biggest cock ever and she knew she was going to get it.

Madeline was about to receive that thing she always wanted. She felt the black hands grip the skirt, fumbling with the material. The skirt was slipping in his clumsy hands.

"Tear it!" She cried over her shoulder.

And then the ripping.

The skirt.

The panties.

A part of her nylon.

And now the air... all muggy from their breathing, but cool all the same touched to her exposed pussy. "Put it in me..." She groaned. And he did. From behind her. He felt the head begin parting her pussy lips. And she wondered how if felt for him. White pussy.

James groaned. The fat head parting the giving lips of this woman. Her slippery insides demanding him. He felt her from inside squeezing him. And then the next inch followed. And the next. He kept breathing, not wanting to hurt this lady.

Madeline was gripping the couch, her eyes clenched.

"Yes..." She murmured as she felt him filling her. "Fuck me... you're gonna... show me... I need it... oh god..." Her chants were above a whisper. She felt him going into her piece by piece, her womb opening for him. That feeling inside of her was that feeling that came only from sneezing or cleaning of ears or coming after fucking for an hour.

Only it was continuous.

James groaned, having filled her.

"You ready, lady?" He asked with his first touch of aggression.

"Fuck me..." She managed, tears in her eyes.

The door shut behind them, Hugo's arms went around this blonde lady's. "Strange the door was unlock-" He began before she had her lips on his, pressing her body into his.

"You never told me your name." He said, breaking for a breath.

"Pam," she said. He suspected she was lying.

Her hands parted his jacket, rubbing his nipples beneath his shirt.

"Someone can come in here at anytime..." he said.

"Are you gonna come in here?" She asked, gripping his chest, rubbing up and down. He could smell her perfume. And he raised her skirt up. His mouth went to her neck.

James was pulled almost all the way out of Madeline and then slammed back into her. And he did it again. Harder, harder, and harder still. Each time, he got more bold. First, he gripped only her hips. And then the small of her back. But now.

Now his hands were on her breasts, smearing her blouse over her fine titties. His mind was wrapped around the idea of her letting him suck them. He wanted nothing more than to please this woman. Maybe she would hire him as her own sex slave. There were worse livings out there.

"Oh god..." she mumbled into the cushion. This man behind her was a fuck machine. He had maintained the pacing and the beat. His prick was pleasing her pussy in ways she'd never dreamed. As his fantastic cock kept slipping in and out of her now-accustomed cunt, she wondered if she'd become addicted. If she would need now only three things in life: coffee, cigarettes, and black cock. Her chin raised, shaking the thought off.

Fucking the black porter made her feel like a real slut. More than those posh parties she always attended. More than the orgies she'd been apart of in China. This was dangerous. This was real.

This was sex.

She began shaking again, thinking of what she was doing.

And James could feel her coming on his prick. It seemed to grow harder inside of her, responding to her muscles and her leaking. He cried out for the first time.

"How about some light?" Hugo asked, fumbling with a cord. The woman didn't respond. When the light came on, he was astounded with what was before him.

Her blonde hair was tossed from their love play. Her dress had slipped over her breasts, exposing their perfect shape... and their fine red tips. Her blue eyes had smudged make up and most of her lip stick was probably on him.

That's when he went to voice his approval.

And that's when the lights went out.

The lights went out all around them.

Madeline didn't know if it was how hard she was being fucked, or if it was the power. Maybe both.

Surprised James too.

No more light.

And then a shot in the dark. Madeline screamed.

Madeline felt James slip from her and fall to the floor. She turned to look over the shoulder. The door was kicked open and she saw a figure run out into the hallway.

"James?" She asked. "James...?"

In the darkness, Hugo fumbled for the doorknob.

The blonde was screaming from the gunshot sound.

"Shhh..." He said, trying to shut her up.

The door was locked.

To Be Continued...