Morris Micklewhite and The Dangerous Jade
A Fanfiction
Based on the character Jade Dragon
created by Battlestrength
Part One
by The Preve
The Author wishes to express his thanks to Battlestrength for his permission in writing this story, and to Destodes 777 for his edit.
Hi.
My name is Morris Micklewhite and my life sucks. Really sucks. Like it sucks dirty, sweaty, smelly ass. My life sucks for lots of different reasons.
First: my name is Morris Micklewhite. Morris fucking Micklewhite. Not Morris Williams, Morris Johnson, or something a little cooler, like Morris James; Micklewhite.
Second: my family. They suck. Mom and Dad divorced when I turned ten. They remarried a dick and a bitch respectively. Neither side wanted me. Mom thought I looked too much like Dad. Dad was too busy being rich to be a father.
I got tossed between them like kids playing football. Plus, my stepdad’s a martinet and my stepmom’s evil.
Mom has another son now. He’s okay I guess. My stepmom came with a daughter. She’s older than me, and bitchier than stepmom.
My life shouldn’t be suckass. It’s not as if I’m poor. Dad’s upper management at a big tech company. Mom’s from some old money upper East Coast family.
My stepdad’s old money too. One of those old family New York, Exeter and Yale-educated fucks who wind up in the state department or some secret squirrel agency, usually known by its initials, with words like “department,” “agency,” “security,” or “intelligence,” in it’s title. He’s in one of the latter but intelligent doesn’t describe the level of his brain power.
My stepmom and her daughter are from Georgia, by way of Malibu. Old South plantation types who fell into southern California life. Dad’s her fourth husband. She didn’t marry him for money. She’s got her own fashion boutique. Dad has connections though, and she’s looking to expand. I was an inconvenience, but she thought I could be a distraction for her daughter.
Right, some distraction. More like her daughter’s shitrag. What was she thinking? Fanny, aka Stepbitch, was two years older than me. I was a freshman when Dad married her mother. Stepbitch was a junior. She hated me on sight.
It got better when she went to college but just barely. I wasn’t surprised she got in Harvard. I heard stepmom paid a lawyer, who paid off a college admission official, and a volleyball coach. I still had Stepasshole to live with for half a year, then a quiet month or two, and then Stepbitch comes home from college, and I’m her amusement for the summer break.
I couldn’t wait ’til I turned eighteen and got out of high school, and then I’d be clear of all of them.
Then I did.
And Stepbitch had a final humiliation.
And things got really fucked after that.
I’ll make this part quick ’cause the fucked part afterward takes longer. The shitshow which started it was fucked up in itself, but nowhere near what came later.
It was a stupid bet really. Stepbitch (she has to earn my respect to call her Fanny), was in her usual form, ragging on me with her equally bitchy friends: old high school BFFs, plus some jocks from college.
A lot of it had to do with my red hair and freckles. That crap washed over me, mostly. I lost count how many times I got called Opie, Archie, or Richie in my short life. Next she went on about my size. I’m not short, but I’m not tall either, and Stepbitch is 5’10” to my 5’6″. She ended with my body. I’m skinny, but not a stick. I’m slender. Stepbitch likes them pumped up like her jock asshole boyfriends so she exaggerates.
Then one of the girls made some comment about my geek cred. I clapped back something about them being spoiled, vapid bimbos who wouldn’t know Call of Duty from their twats.
I meant it as a casual snipe. I was sick of their shit and getting ready to leave anyway. Stepbitch saw it differently.
“Oooo, a challenge.”
I didn’t mean it as a challenge.
Before I knew it, I was in a Call of Duty match up against Stepbitch.
“Loser has to be the other’s bitch for the next week,” she grinned, “Everything the winner says, the loser does.”
What could I say? I couldn’t resist. Stepbitch was cruel, materialistic. She never struck me as a gamer. At least she never played around the house. I ate, shit, and breathed Call of Duty. Beating her would even the tab a little.
“Deal.”
I lost. Who’d a thought.
“You know, Red? Call of Duty’s a good way to let off steam at college,” she smirked. “I also like to do it at my friends’ houses, but you wouldn’t know that.”
Stepbitch waited a few days, savoring every moment of my torture, waiting for the weekend. Early Wednesday, she roused me from bed, at six in the morning, with ice cold water.
“Yow! What the fuck?!”
“Up and at ’em, Red. I gotta get your ass ready for Saturday.”
“Fuck off! I’m trying to sleep.”
“Get up or you welch, and be my bitch for the month rather than the week.”
The terms of the deal. I couldn’t back out. She’d set one of her jock pals on me, like a loan shark.
She took me on a two hour ride in her pink bubblegum ‘Vette (I hated the thing). I knew about the place we arrived at, I’d just never been there. Stepmom’s best friend ran it, and the best friend’s daughter was one of Stepbitch’s followers. She was the one who quipped about my geek cred.
Blue Rose Spa and Salon.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
“We’re spending the day here, Red, so suck it up.”
We went through the entrance into reception.
“Fanny Price and Morris Micklewhite,” Stepbitch said, placing emphasis on Micklewhite.
The receptionist smiled, signed us in, and directed us down the hall. “Locker rooms and showers are to the right.”
We met attendants who followed us to the locker room. Turns out they wash our clothes as a complement, while we showered and got ready for whatever torture Stepbitch paid to inflict on us.
We stood there, dressed only in bathrobes and sandals. Stepmom’s best friend was in the lounge herself to greet us.
“Welcome back Fanny,” she smiled, “Chrissie asked me to thank you for your help with the Miss Malibu pageant.”
“Always glad to pitch in Mrs. Venetti.”
I rolled my eyes.
“So, the usual for you?”
“Yes, and remember, full treatment for him.”
“Full treatment?” I asked, “What do you mean by that?”
Mrs. Venetti’s smile was sweet as poison. Stepbitch was the one who bared her teeth.
“You’ll find out.”
And that was how I found myself splayed flat on a bench, naked, screaming in agony, as a giant, psychobitch Nurse Ratched/Annie Wilkes/Arnold Schwarzenegger hybrid waxed, lasered, and electrolysized every inch of skin below my hairline. She flipped me around like a pancake.
She got everything; under the arms, my pubs, my ass crack, my balls. She left me with my head hair, my eyebrows, and maybe some skin. I couldn’t tell at the time. Everything else was gone, permanently.
I looked myself over in a mirror afterwards, trying to figure what I thought of this whole mess. Stepbitch did this to me for reasons I didn’t want to think about.
Anyway, she came out of her session none the worse, all made up and flawless, and in a bathrobe. They didn’t give me one. Stepbitch wanted to see me naked.
She came, she saw, she smirked.
“Turn around, Red.”
I grit my teeth and did as she said. I should tell you my face was red as my hair.
“Perfect,” she said, “You know, Red, your body’s kind of nice-looking, especially your ass. Now get dressed.”
She left me with a dropped jaw. What the fuck she just say?
On the way home she laid it out.
“I’m giving a party, Saturday, while the parents are in Catalina. You’re going to be the waiter, and the entertainment.”
“Fine, what stupid costume do you want me to wear?”
“The same stupid costume I just saw you in.”
It took a second for my brain to catch up to what she said.
“What?! Why?!”
“‘Cause it’s going to be fun, and I like to show my winnings off, and you’re it.”
My stepsister was a sociopath.
The Saturday party was just as bad as expected. I was only allowed to wear sandals. I had to serve hors d’oeuvres. Reactions varied. Most laughed. Some were sympathetic, but didn’t call Stepbitch out on it.
Some said I was cute. Some said I had a nice ass, echoing Stepbitch. I got some remarks on my cock which, like me, wasn’t big but not small either. Some got handsy. I had to do some dodging. Several felt me up. A few of the girls made me offers. So did a few of the guys. I didn’t take them up. I was too embarrassed to think, and the offers could have been set ups. Besides, I was a virgin.
This was the shit I had to endure for almost twelve hours. I didn’t think it could get any worse than Saturday.
It got worse. Much, much worse.
You see, Stepbitch neglected to tell her friends to leave their phones at home. You can guess the rest; by Sunday morning every inch of my bare ass naked body was smeared across the social network, everywhere. I was fucked.
I got some satisfaction: so was Stepbitch.
Turns out, if you have affluent, publicity conscious parents trying to make deals with high class business prospects, having a naked son trending is not good for impressions. Stepbitch actually fucked up for a change.
Dad and Stepmom had to cut their trip short to clean up the shit storm.
They couldn’t wipe my ass off the internet, so they did the next closest thing.
Stepbitch was packed off to relations in Virginia. A little threat to her college tuition made her compliant. Mom didn’t want me. Her old money eastern elite sensibilities were shocked, “Shocked,” by my “Irresponsible behavior.” She didn’t care about my side of the story. Stepasshole pushed for military school, or the Army.
I was eighteen, just out of school, with good grades behind me. My sights were set on Caltech after my gap year. I didn’t know if they’d take me after this shitfest though.
Dad’s solution was to pack me off to my uncle Harry, his brother, in Key West. The literal bottom of the country. I didn’t give a fuck really. I was done with everyone and everything.
If I’d known how moving in with Uncle Harry would fuck my life up, more thoroughly than any fuck up in fuck up history, I’d have begged Stepbitch to farm me out as a naked caterer to every snot-assed party in Southern California. As it stood, I’d show more of my body in the coming fuckfest than at any moment, from my birth to the Saturday party.
****
Let me tell you about my Uncle Harry. I don’t know much about him. No one in the family really does, not even Dad. I do know he’s as different from Dad as the Joker from Batman.
Dad’s light-skinned with red hair. Uncle Harry’s dark olive with black hair.
The difference came from our grandparents. My granddad was Archibald “Archie” Micklewhite, a vacuum cleaner salesman turned company exec from Southeast London. The red hair / light skin combo came from my Scottish great-grandmother.
My grandmother was Alexa Amira Kallistodapappoulous-Micklewhite. A Greek-Syrian from Cyprus. My great-grandmother on that side was half Ethiopian.
Archie and Alexa emigrated to the States sometime in the late sixties. Dad came in ’75, Uncle Harry in ’80. The genes split the difference. Dad took after Gramps, Uncle Harry after Gramma. I took after Dad.
It wasn’t just the looks. Dad was the responsible, studious stick-in-the-mud. Uncle Harry was the wild rebel. Dad was the valedictorian. Uncle Harry, the delinquent.
The grandparents tried everything on Uncle Harry. The only things that took were martial arts and boxing classes. He did really good, I heard. Won many martial arts competitions, and achieved sixth degree in black belt.
Dad went straight from high school to Harvard business. Uncle Harry joined the Marines.
Dad transferred to Yale and joined the Skull and Bones. Uncle Harry did something heroic on his first deployment, straight out of boot camp, that got him a medal, and into Annapolis. No one knows what; it’s a government secret apparently. It set a pattern.
Dad graduated, got into the rat race, and is now the chief operating officer of Plum Technologies, one of the largest, most powerful tech companies on the planet.
Uncle Harry graduated Annapolis, went into Marine Recon, and vanished. Not completely. He’d pop up from time to time. No one knew what he was up to between appearances.
The part where I said I didn’t know much about him came from that. I knew about his younger years only ’cause of a class project I had to do about family histories.
Prior to Key West, I’d only seen him twice in my life. The first time, I was eight and the family had gathered around Grandpa’s hospital bed. He’d suffered a heart attack.
Uncle Harry wasn’t there long. He was dressed in a suit, like Vincent Vega from Pulp Fiction. He and Dad were arguing in the hallway outside Grandpa’s hospital room. I don’t know what they were saying. Their words were loud whispers and sounded harsh.
Dad broke off the conversation and stormed back into the room. Uncle Harry stood a few seconds, breathing hard. Then he noticed me.
“Who are you kid?” he had a kind of nasally voice with a heavy Brooklyn accent. Dad got rid of his accent before I was born. He speaks mid-Atlantic like my mother now.
“M-Morris.”
The man scared the living shit out of me. He was about Dad’s size, 5’11”. His hair was a black mass of curls with brown and gray streaks. He wore a brown mustache, kind of old-fashioned, like out of a 70s TV cop show, and he had the deepest chin cleft I’d ever seen on any human face. Kirk Douglas could only hope to match Uncle Harry’s cleft.
What terrified me most about Uncle Harry were his eyes: twin beams of blue-gray steel. They bore through me with such intensity, I almost wet my pants. It was like looking at Death itself.
“Arch’s kid.” Dad was Archie Jr. Uncle Harry looked at me thoughtfully. “Word of advice kid. Soon as you’re able, get as far away from him as you can. He’s shit.”
These days I can’t exactly disagree with him. I didn’t know it at the time. I was just happy seeing him walk down the hall.
His next appearance was at my grandparents’ funeral. They’d been murdered; shot in bed at point blank range, with a shotgun. I was sixteen.
It made news. They even caught a suspect. He was British, middle-aged, part of some long-standing firm from South London, Grandpa and Grandma’s old home.
They couldn’t get anything out of him except the words, “Old debts,” or so I heard.
The funeral was the only time I saw Dad express something other than disapproval or disinterest. He might be no good as a father, but he cared for Grandpa and Grandma at least.
He glanced at Uncle Harry sometimes. Uncle Harry’s face was hard, cold. He didn’t look at Dad or anyone. Just the coffins. I wasn’t as scared of him as when I was eight. He still gave me a shiver.
A month after we buried Grandpa and Grandma, CNN reported London police responded to reports of a shootout in a South London pub.
Cameras showed crowds of people milling around outside. The police found a couple dozen dead in the pub, and the offices upstairs. The pub was known to be the headquarters of the firm that employed my grandparents’ murderer. All the dead were its members.
Most died from multiple gunshots, except for five identified as the top members. They all had multiple stab wounds, including two elderly brothers, leaders of the firm, with cut throats. Autopsy reports said the five did not die quickly. The only clue reported was a message, written in their blood on the wall. “Debts paid back with interest.”
Grandpa and Grandma never talked about their lives before they emigrated. I wondered what they did in South London.
Uncle Harry rarely wrote but he did send an address a while back, where Dad could mail documents related to Grandpa’s will.
So that’s where Dad sent me.
The house was a bungalow in the New Town neighborhood, near the beach.
The taxi dropped me off. Dad hadn’t given me any instructions. He just gave me the address, some money for the taxi, bundled me on the plane, turned around, and left without looking back.
I was in essence, thrown away; better than those, “I am so disappointed,” variations he threw at me on the way to the airport.
I stood outside, wondering if I should let Uncle Harry know I was here. I could turn around, walk out of the neighborhood, and off whatever cliff would take me.
There was nothing left really back home for me. I hadn’t much of a life, didn’t have many friends, and wasn’t welcome in most of the social cliques. Stepbitch’s stunt destroyed the social life left to me.
But what could I do now? Everything I owned was in a duffel bag on my shoulder, and I only had on jeans, tennis shoes, and a black tee with a Wolverine picture on the front. So I rang the bell, waited, and rang again. The person who answered was not Uncle Harry.
She was about six feet, light blonde hair, done in a bun, deep blue eyes behind a pair of round wire rims, and dressed in a white tee and jeans. She was built like a brick shithouse. She was fucking hot.
The first words out of her mouth were, “We don’t need any kid,” and shut the door.
I was too stunned processing her to move at first. Then I blinked and rang the bell again. This time I heard Russian, or I thought it was Russian. She was cursing, it felt like. She threw the door open.
“Look kid, we don’t need any raffle tickets, subscriptions, cookies, or whatever useless crap your scout troop’s selling, so fuck off!”
Her accent was thick, and smoky.
“I’m not a boy scout. I’m Morris,” I said, trying to stop her shutting the door.
“Morris? Who the fuck is Morris?”
“Harry’s nephew. This is his house isn’t it? Where is he?”
“He’s at the store, and Harry didn’t mention anything about a nephew! Who are you?!”
“I told you, I’m Morris.” What the hell was going on?
The lady looked past me, at the neighborhood, like she was scanning for something.
“Get in here kid!” She grabbed and pulled me in.
Before I knew it, she’d hustled me into the living room, and pushed me toward the couch.
“Strip,” she said.
“Huh?”
“I said strip, and toss your clothes toward me as you do.”
“What the hell are you talking about?! I’m not taking my clothes off!”
She reached behind her back and pulled out a gun.
“Strip.”
I stripped.
Seconds later, I was in my Hanes, looking very pissed.
“All of it.”
Off came the Hanes and, once again, I was bare assed naked in front of a woman.
She searched through my clothes while I stripped, emptied my bag and wallet on the floor.
“Turn around, bend over, and spread your cheeks.”
“What?!”
“Do it.”
I did it. She didn’t give me a body cavity search at least.
“Go to the couch and sit.”
“Can I have my clothes?”
“No.”
So I sat naked on the couch. What the fuck is going on? I asked again.
The brick shithouse blonde sat in the chair opposite.
“Who are you really kid?”
“Morris.”
“Your I.D says Morris Micklewhite.”
“Yes.”
“There’s no Micklewhite here.”
“Yes there is. Uncle Harry.”
“There’s only Harry Coal. No Micklewhite. Who sent you? Who are you, really?”
“Dad sent me, and I’m Morris.”
She stared at me, ice cold. “Okay, ‘Morris’. We’re going to sit here and wait for Harry. When he gets home and confirms he has no nephew, I’m going to put a bullet in your head.”
So, to summarize, within minutes of arriving in Key West, I’m sitting naked on a couch, with a crazy, hot, blonde woman pointing a gun at my head. What the fuck did you get into Morris?
It took twenty terrifying minutes for Uncle Harry to come home.
I heard the door open, footsteps come down the hall, stop, and then a gun cock. “Liz?”
“In here, Harry.”
Uncle Harry walked into the room. He had a Glock.
“Who’s bag’s that in… What the fuck?! Morris?!”
“Hi Uncle Harry.”
“What the fuck you doing here?! Liz?! What the fuck’s going on?!”
“So he’s your nephew then?”
“Yeah, my brother’s son.”
“He showed up at the door. I thought he was a boy scout.” Liz tucked her gun away. “When he said he was looking for you, I did what you taught me.”
“You did good. I just didn’t think you’d do it with my nephew.”
“Uh, Uncle Harry?”
“What?”
“Can I get dressed now?”
“Oh. Right, get dressed kid.”
“Oh darn, I like him the way he is. He looks cute.”
“Shut up Liz,” Uncle Harry said.
I put my clothes on quietly. I wasn’t feeling good at the moment. I wanted to puke.
“So Morris. What are you doing here? And don’t puke. I know that look.”
“I got into trouble. Dad sent me here. He had your address.”
“My address? Arch’s not supposed to have my address. And I told him to send Pap’s will, not you… wait. What kind of trouble?” Uncle Harry looked concerned, not about me though.
“Stepbi… I mean Fanny got me into doing something stupid. It got plastered all over the internet. Dad got pissed, Mom didn’t want me, so he sent me here.”
“So Arch sent me his mess. What the fuck’s he thinking? I can’t take care of a kid.”
“I’m eighteen. I can take care of myself. I just need a roof over my head.”
Uncle Harry was pensive. “This is not the place for you kid. We’re not the parenting types.”
“Great, so can you give me some money for a motel room?”
Uncle Harry rubbed his chin, then nursed his forehead.
“Fuck! Look, I’ll let you stay but there are some rules.”
“Harry!” Liz crooked her finger.
I couldn’t hear Harry and Liz’s conversation but Liz definitely wasn’t happy with my presence.
There was a lot of buzzing, waving arms, and angry glances at me, from both of them.
Liz finished with an angry scowl, and stormed out of the living room, into the kitchen. There were a lot of pots and pans banging, and lots of cursing, in English and “Russian” (Ukrainian actually, I found out later).
Uncle Harry blew an exasperated sigh, then jerked his head. “Follow me kid.”
He took me upstairs to a small room on the roof. A dormer window opened to a view of the neighborhood. The ceiling sloped, and there was only a folding bed and small dresser.
“I’ll get you some sheets and blankets. Liz is making dinner. I’ll give you the rules right now, and later if you forget.”
Rule #1: Do everything Uncle Harry tells you, without question.
Rule #2: Do not let anyone in the house, ever.
Rule #3: Do not go into the basement, ever.
“The basement is Liz’s workshop. She’s very sensitive about her work, and very protective. So the basement’s off limits… and keep your distance from Liz too. Don’t ask questions.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Liz didn’t give off the same vibe as Stepbitch, but she’d forced me to strip and held a gun on me. Not a good experience while last weekend was still raw.
Uncle Harry left me to unpack and make up the bed. Being alone allowed me to think about what I’d seen. Liz held a gun on me. Uncle Harry had a gun. Liz had a workshop in the basement. No one is allowed in the house. What did I just walk into? Who is Uncle Harry, and why did Liz call him Harry Coal?
****
Dinner was borscht. I’d never had borscht. That’s when I found Liz was Ukrainian. It tasted… good actually. I had two servings. Liz seemed pleased. Uncle Harry seemed to like the soup.
“So Morris,” Liz asked. “What trouble did you do to get you exiled?”
“I… uh… I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, you’re going to talk about it. I want to know why my idiot brother stuck me with you.”
Uncle Harry was pretty firm. I knew, on some level, I’d caused a serious disruption to something important. If I’d known then what I know now.
Anyway, it came out. Uncle Harry and Liz actually laughed, not chuckled, laughed loud when I got to the part about Stepbitch’s unexpected prowess.
“So, she beat you at Call of Duty? I’ve not heard a story that rich in years.” Uncle Harry wiped laugh tears from his eyes.
Then I came to the part about the spa (“Ouch!” Uncle Harry sympathized).
“‘Splains your bald pubes,” Liz chuckled.
When I came around to the naked catering, Uncle Harry left the table. A couple of minutes later he came back with a laptop. He turned it on and tapped a few keys.
“Well, looks like you’re still trending.”
“Can I see?” asked Liz.
“Here you go.”
I watched, red as the borscht, Uncle Harry and Liz, grin and chuckle at my nudie show.
Liz looked up and saw my red face. “Good grief, Morris. Stop blushing. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”
I thought she was joking but she continued. “I certainly liked what I saw.”
That made me turn even redder, but it was a different kind of embarrassment. I think it’s the difference between people laughing at you, and complimenting you. It’s just I never thought I had anything on me to be complimentary.
People said I was cute, or some did. I remember a friend of Stepmom’s, some artist type, can’t remember his name, who said he’d like to paint me. This was a year before now.
He said I looked as if someone had taken, “An idealized Norman Rockwell kid, mixed in some Walt Disney’s Peter Pan, put in touches of Archie Andrews and Opie Taylor, and finally added a dash of modern nerd.”
He also said I had a lithesome body. I asked him what he meant. He said, “You have one of those skinny bodies, but not of the gawky, bony kind. Your body’s supple, like a dancer. Not some pumped up body builder. And your pug nose and freckles make you unique. I’d even consider you as a model, just not the Abercrombie and Fitch type. I think you might have potential for the catwalk as a male model. You might want to consider it.”
I flashed back to that moment, watching Uncle Harry and Liz watch me on the laptop. I remembered how warm I felt listening to him. I was feeling warm like that now. It wasn’t a bad feeling.
I did notice Uncle Harry was no longer chuckling. He was watching the party with closer interest. He was watching me with closer interest. I wondered what that was about. Looking back, I know he was more interested in how I moved.
I had to do some dodging at the party. A few of Stepbitch’s friends, male and female, were a little grabby. I had to bob and weave sometimes. Uncle Harry was studying my movements.
“Well Red, I don’t think you have to worry about this crap being up for long. Arch’s probably having his tech guys scrub as much as they can find.”
“It’s the web Uncle Harry. It’s there forever.”
“There’s nothing to be done, Red. You’ll have to own it.”
I knew he was right. There was no help for it. Didn’t make it better though. I decided to change the subject.
“Uncle Harry?”
“Mmm?”
“Why the guns? Are you two… um… drug dealers?”
There had to be a reason for Liz’s weird behavior, and Uncle Harry’s rules, and with Liz’s accent, I was thinking Russian Mafia.
“No,” Uncle Harry chuckled, “No it’s not like that. Liz here (Liz was chuckling too) is sort of an artist, and she’s working on a masterpiece. A lot of dealers would like to get their hands on it. I’m sort of her bodyguard. Which is weird, because I don’t really do this kind of thing.”
I didn’t know what Uncle Harry meant by that but I didn’t ask. “I guess it’s a really big project then.”
“The biggest,” Liz smiled, and she looked at Uncle Harry, “and I’m almost done.”
“How much is almost done?” Uncle Harry asked.
“I’m close. Very close.”
I knew Liz’s project probably had nothing to do with art, but I wasn’t going there. I did have a final question.
“Why did Liz say your last name is Coal?”
“It’s my professional name. It’s your maternal great-grandmother’s maiden name. I like it better than, well, Micklewhite.”
“Got a point,” I smiled.
“Well Red, dinner’s done. Help Liz with the dishes, and after that, you have free run of the house, except the basement. I have some errands to run tonight. You going to be okay?”
“We’ll be fine. I’ll be in the basement. Red has the window.”
I didn’t really know what they meant but the questions were done for now. One thought came to me as I helped Liz. Uncle Harry and Liz called me Red rather than kid or Morris. It was kind of annoying, taking a nickname from Stepbitch, but it was better than Morris.
The days leading up to the Big Fuck were kinda dull. There wasn’t much to do in the house, or the neighborhood.
Most of the houses were empty. The neighbors were either too old or too occupied to be interested.
Uncle Harry explained the neighborhood got slammed hard by the housing market collapse and never recovered. Key West keeps the lawns cut and an occasional police patrol, but that’s that.
I guess that’s why Uncle Harry and Liz picked the house; no snoops. He kept a close eye on a couple of houses though.
Now, I’m not one of those kids who lie around all day playing Call of Duty. I might have gotten enough practice to beat Stepbitch if I had. I like to do things, so I kept busy with exercise, cleaning around the house, and taking care of the lawn.
Uncle Harry and Liz left me alone mostly. Uncle disappeared most nights, while Liz stayed down in the basement, with the door locked.
Eventually, I got caught up with everything, and found myself with nothing to do and too much time to do it. Running wasn’t helping. Besides, it was summer in Key West, and running in the humidity was getting old.
Liz came up with a suggestion when I complained about the humidity.
“Go swimming instead of jogging. We’re only two minutes walk from the beach.”
“I don’t have swim trunks.”
“So?” Then she made a suggestion I thought was a joke. “There’s little to worry about around here. Most of the beach goers are up north. You can get away with murder and no one would notice. Or if they did, they wouldn’t care. ‘Sides, if you get filmed, how much worse can it get? Everyone’s seen what you got by now.”
It made a kind of crazy sense. I did prefer swimming to running, especially in the summer. I was nervous the first time I took her suggestion, but after a few days, nude swims were my morning routine.
I’d wake up, go to the beach, strip, swim, come home, rinse off, and eat breakfast. It was a nice routine. I got my exercise, and it was quick ’cause water came off my body easily these days. My body was hairless, and I kept my hair cut short.
I’d pretty much settled in by then. It was the best time I ever had actually. I was away from Stepbitch, and both pairs of parents. Uncle Harry and Liz left me to myself, though sometimes I’d catch Uncle staring at me with a thoughtful look.
So I really got slammed when everything went to shit. It was a Tuesday in late July. I was rinsing off in the shower after my morning swim.
Uncle Harry hadn’t come back from last night. He did this often so it was no big deal. Before I go on, I need to talk about a weird thing Liz did two days prior.
It was Sunday night. I was watching Arrow on Netflix, when Liz burst out of the basement, shrieking like a banshee.
She pulls me up, dances me around, yelling in Ukrainian, plants a big, wet kiss on my mouth, then runs back down the basement. I stood there, stunned, wondering, and then I shrugged and went back to Arrow.
Next morning she took Uncle Harry to the basement. He was down there an hour, and then he ran back up, out the house, and to the car. He didn’t say anything to me. He just peeled rubber out of the drive.
He came back two hours later, grinning, and pretty much grins, whispers, and self-satisfied looks were the norm for the rest of the day, and then he left for the night.
So back to rinsing off. Liz was in the kitchen making breakfast. I got out of the shower and started brushing my teeth.
The phone rang. It went a couple of times before Liz answered.
“Liz here… What?! Ebat! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Tak! Twenty minutes!”
I heard her run down to the basement. I flossed, rinsed, and spit. Liz kicked open the door.
“Red! We gotta go now!”
“What?!”
“Don’t ask, just do! Wait!” Liz’s look turned thoughtful. “Turn around.”
“What?!”
“Do it!”
I did it. A second later I got a sharp sting on my left ass cheek. “The fuck?!”
“I’ll tell you later. Let’s go!”
“But my clothes… ”
“Already got ’em, move!”
We peeled rubber. We’d just turned the corner when kaboom! I looked back at the fireball rising where the house once stood.
“The house blew up!”
“No layno Sherlock!”
“What the fuck!”
“I blew it up. Now shut up and get dressed!”
Far easier said than done. She’d hustled me out of the bathroom and into the car without a stitch.
I didn’t even get a chance to put on pants. The best way to describe our kidnapping was a big truck blocks the road. Liz stops, reverses. Another big truck at the other end. Liz stops. Car window breaks, gas, and then the next thing, I wake to the most crazy fucked up sight of my life (and also the fucking hottest).
First, I was braced to a bench by my wrists and ankles, with my legs spread.
Second, Liz was in a similar position across from me.
Third, we were both naked; me because, well I mentioned it earlier. Liz, because whoever snatched us, stripped her while we were out of it.
Liz was hot. I knew that. Nude Liz was a supernova. I could see all of her ’cause our tables were tilted facing each other. Her body was smooth and hairless, like mine. She also worked out. I talked about her brick shithouse build earlier. Not Schwarzenegger size but real hard bodied.
We were in some warehouse, I guess. There were lots of crates, but a lot of tech equipment too. Plus a whole bunch of stuff like tanks and military trucks, and other vehicles.
Liz was just waking up. Once she blinked her eyes and looked around, her first words were, “Ebat!” Followed by a string of profanities in Ukrainian and English.
I waited until she stopped. It didn’t seem safe to interrupt her session. She wasn’t scared, like me, just royally pissed.
Liz scowled, not at me, but the situation in general.
“Well, this is one bloody fucking mess. Sorry I got you into this, Red.”
“Uh, yeah, uh… what did you get me into?”
“Something really, really bad. I’m not going to soften it, Red. If the man who I think’s behind this is here, it’s worse than it looks.”
“Who?”
“Me, I suspect,” a very British accent right out of a Bond flick said.
Both of us turned our heads in the voice’s direction. A large group of very well armed, very large (most of them), skinheaded, nazi-tattoed up the wazoo, goons had just come around a bunch of crates.
“But then, many think I’m the worst man in the game,” the voice came from the goon squad. I couldn’t see the man.
“Just stop your villainous boast and show yourself fuckface.”
“Tsk, how rude. But you always had a reputation for unladylike behavior.”
The goon squad parted and Paul Shaffer stepped into view.
Well, he looked like Paul Shaffer. He was bald, had on black goggles, and dressed like he was set to play laser tag, but really, I expected David Letterman to come right behind him.
He wore one of those Bond villain smirks on his face, much of it directed toward Liz.
“Yelizaveta Slutskaya. Doctor Jeremus Hazard at your service.”
“You’re as much a doctor as I’m a nun. So how’s the weapons and drug business doing, or have you gone back to sex-trafficking?”
“Typical bravado, and you,” he turned to me, “Your I.D says you’re Morris Micklewhite, and you’re eighteen, albeit I’d check your card at a movie theater. What’s a young lad like you doing associating with the likes of Dr. Slutskaya and Harry Coal? Other than prancing around naked, which seems to be a habit with you.”
The goon squad chuckled. Fuck! Even evil villains saw the video.
“He’s just some homeless kid we let crash in our house. He’s nobody.”
“I was not talking to you Doctor Slutskaya. I find it curious the son of the COO of the world’s third largest tech corporation is found in the company of the world’s foremost nanotech engineer, and one of the intelligence community’s top wetworks specialists.”
Remember the Road Runner and Coyote cartoon where the Coyote is chasing the Road Runner, comes close enough to just barely touch him, then the Road Runner goes “Beep! Beep!” and hits light speed, leaving the Coyote literally standing still, and he has to pick his jaw up from the ground? Well, mine dented the concrete.
The drop dead hot, hardbodied Ukrainian blonde bombshell laying across from me was some fucking superscientist, some crazy arms smuggling, mad scientist had kidnapped us, and my Uncle, my goddamn fucking Uncle, was a hit man; a real big deal of a hit man, from what the mad scientist said.
This is where I asked for the thousandth time, What the fuck did I get into?
“That confused expression is either a very good act, or you honestly never knew Dr. Slutskaya and Harry Coal’s actual activities.
Liz had nothing to say except to give me a smile and a shrug.
“Liz said she was an artist. Harry was her bodyguard,” I droned very, very numbly. I think I was a little lightheaded; sensory overload and all that.
“You’re too young and fresh-looking to be in the Life. Those were very interesting videos by the way. Ah! A blush. You just might be the genuine article. Albeit, considering your nudity at the moment, why you should be embarrassed is beyond me. As it stands, you might have some use as a hostage. Maybe I can get some money from your father. Right now, I’m more interested in Doctor Slutskaya. To be more specific, Project Achilles.”
“I don’t… ”
“‘Know what you’re talking about.’ Really Ms. Slutskaya. Give a man some respect. Project Achilles has been floating around scientific circles and the dark web for years. From the little I heard, there are only three scientists capable of conceiving such a project. One is in a Russian jail, the others in a British mental hospital. That leaves only you, who disappeared from her lab in Minsk three years ago, and surfaced here.”
“So I took a sabbatical. No crime in that.”
“In an out of the way neighborhood in Key West. In a house that used ten times the electricity as any other in the city. I know your profile. A brilliant scientist such as you does not stay idle for extended periods, you especially, given your associations. So I’ll ask again. What is Project Achilles and why is the Syndicate funding it?”
“You tell me. You mentioned this ‘Project Achilles’ several times, so you know more than me, obviously.”
“I only know its theoreticals. Biotech enhancement. Specifics are unknown, thanks to you. The New Town neighborhood currently has a new crater. You were very thorough, if crude.”
“Geez, those gas explosions.”
“Riiight, so I take it this is as much as you’re willing to divulge.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will, eventually. I guess it’s time to bring out the MP.”
Now, I was listening, trying to make sense of this back and forth. Project Achilles? The Syndicate? The whole dialogue came off like a 60s Bond flick with touches of X-Files. And then he said MP, and I’m thinking, What does a military policeman have to do with this? Kind of silly, yes, but I knew jack about the Life then.
Doc Hazard gestured to his goons, and one of them wheeled out a cart. On the cart was a strange-looking machine. I don’t quite know how to describe it, but I’ll try.
It was about the size of a large pressure cooker, and kind of looked like one.
On top of it was a motor. It looked like a fuel or water pump.
Two hoses were attached on either side. The hoses were transparent but had wires winding around them like vines. The wires led to small cod pieces attached to each end of the hoses. Only one cod piece had a sort of vacuum pump in it. The other end had a ridged dildo attached to it. Yes, I said it. A dildo.
“I originally created this contraption for a Russian oligarch, who wanted some help with his horse breeding business. He was the one who found a new use for it with his mistress. Unfortunately, he could not find a way to detach himself or his mistress from it. Pity, but they both died with smiles on their faces. Consider yourself lucky young Micklewhite, to have the privilege of participating in this experiment.”
I didn’t really feel lucky, whatever Doc Hazard was about to do.
“I know you’re a pervert who tortures his victims with sex toys, but I don’t see how you think that machine will make me talk.”
“Well, let’s find out shall we?”
Doc Hazard placed the vacuum pump codpiece over my cock and balls.
“Youch!” two sharp stings on my balls. “What was that?!”
“Just a special chemical of my concoction, injected into your testicles, via specially placed syringes. It’ll increase your sperm production. Oh, and a little Viagra too. The adhesive on the codpiece will keep the pump attached. Now for Doctor Slutskaya.”
He slathered some lube on the dildo and, I don’t have to tell you the next part. Liz was really livid.
“You fucking piece-of-shit pervert fuck!”
“Really Doctor Slutskaya, is that the best you can do? I seem to remember hearing stories how the girls in your school, intensely jealous of your academic prowess, gave you a name, what was it? Oh yes. Dr. Slut.
Liz didn’t show much reaction to the slight. Not surprising. You get bullied, you either break, or get hard. I know that very well.
Doc Hazard went back to the machine and fiddled with the controls.
“I know this is an unconventional method to extract information but, I assure you, the pleasure will not last long. You can then make your confessions to the camera over there. Or to me when I return. I shall be back in a couple of hours to see if my Masturbatational Pregnificator has made you more cooperative. That is, if the young man has not died from orgasmic thrombosis… or you from a ruptured uterus. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaah!”
He flipped a switch and started to walk off.
“Uh Boss, can we watch? That bitch is all kinds of fine ass.” It was one of the goons. A skinhead with a Minnesota accent right out of Fargo.
“I’m sorry gentlemen but we have important deliveries to make, contracts to fulfill, and a limited window. If it’s any consolation, a selected squad will be allowed to stay behind to guard the place while we’re away. Plus, since I’m filming this, I’ll make copies, and you can have them for $19.99.”
The goons followed the Doc with sour looks. So to summarize again, I was on a bench, across from a hot blonde scientist, with a mechanical cocksucker attached to my groin.
“This is around the time I close my eyes and think of Russia,” Liz spat.
“I thought you were Ukrainian.” It sounded like something to say.
“I spent a lot of time in Russia, Red. Sorry again, you’re in this shit.”
A red light on the MP thing blinked on.
“It should start when it goes green.”
“What happens then?”
“What happens? What happens is we pray somebody finds us before this thing fucks us to death.”
“What about Uncle Harry?”
“Harry’s dead, Red; ambushed. Somebody from the Syndicate called. Told us to clear out. We were compromised.”
I didn’t know what to think about that. I barely knew him. I’d only met him two times before Key West, and barely interacted while I was here. I only just found out what he did a few minutes ago. I didn’t have much time to process the news. The green light came on and it started.
If this machine was a torture device, it was the worst ever… at first. It did the opposite of torture.
It felt like thousands of fingers stroked, tickled, and soft squeezed my frank and beans. I got stiff immediately. I started moaning soon after.
“Enjoy it while you can, Red,” Liz grunted, “It won’t last.”
“I’m… having trouble… believing that…” I gasped.
Liz’s piece was moving too. I hadn’t noticed the small motors on the codpiece which caused the dildo to thrust back and forth. I think my hose worked on the same principle, only it squeezed and milked me like a cow.
Our bodies were already getting flushed and sweaty. My muscles tensed and relaxed, and I was moaning and grunting.
Liz, opposite me, was doing the same thing. Her body shook, her breasts were two very large globes of pink jelly. Her muscles were toned before, but they really stood out here.
It happened. There was no build up. I just went, “Ugh!” and came.
I saw my cream squirt down the hose, into the tank, and out the other side. I think the tank might have had some other liquid in it.
Liz gasped, shook, and went, “Fuck!” and my cum pumped into her.
Meanwhile, I came again, and again after that. The machine stroked and squeezed with increasing frequency, and each stroke, each squeeze drew out a squirt until it turned into a steady flow.
It was almost like a continuous piss, without relief, but not uncomfortable. In fact, I didn’t feel exhausted from the milking. I felt the opposite.
Liz though, she was cumming and cursing mostly “Oh Gods,” and “Oh fucks,” with a mixture of Ukrainian, Russian, and English.
Sometimes, she’d arch her back and scream, either before or after getting a blast of my cum. None of my cum leaked out, or hers.
I saw no signs of her belly swelling, yet. I didn’t think it would be long. I was jizzing like a fire hose, and it had no place to go but into her.
I didn’t like the idea of Liz popping like a cum-filled balloon. I didn’t want to see it.
Someone please come, I pleaded.
To Be Continued.