Rory And Paris

Sin City

Disclaimer: The characters of Rory and Paris do not belong to me.
Rating: R
Author: Fontana777
Email: xj74us@yahoo.com

Sin City beckoned Rory like a cruel, sadistic lover. The towering gray shadows of the dark, brooding metropolis loomed ominously in the distance, piercing through the orgasmic haze that shrouded the city in eternal night. The shadows enveloped Rory as she stared, mesmerized, out the window of her onrushing train. Her heart quickened as the shadows drew nearer. She could feel the blood boiling in her veins and the fire rage between her legs as she thought of what adventures awaited her at her journey's end.
Rory turned her gaze inward, poring over her own reflection. What stared back at her was not the Rory the world knew, who sat oh so prim and proper in the dusty Yale classrooms, deadened by a never-ending grind of Laplace transforms and obscure sixteenth century English authors; but the Rory of these solitary Friday night excursions, who used any excuse to escape from the crusty life of conservative New Haven, into a forbidden world of decadence and vice.
No one knew about the double life that Rory led, not even Paris. Oddly, it was the words of one of Rory's least favorite authors that had led Rory to explore these new possibilities within herself: Anais Nin, and her great dictum that "every woman should be a whore at least one time in her life." To Rory's shock and amazement, she had dared to turn those charged, incendiary words into a living, breathing reality: Becky, her alter ego, the whore, the harlot, the slut extraordinaire, who prowled the streets of Sin City's Old Town, a temptress on the hunt, a devourer of human flesh, whose appetite could never be sated.
But there were hard truths to the life Rory lived. Rory knew if the world ever found out about her secret life, if it ever got an inkling this scion of Gilmore money and power, this great white hope of America's gilded youth, had lived this double life of debauchery, then everything we've built, our entire civilization - it would all fall apart. So Rory was playing Russian roulette, not only with her own life, but the lives of all those uncounted millions out there who worshipped so serenely the false gods of safety and comfort.
Rory, however, didn't believe in a world where mighty empires suddenly vanished into dust. She believed in the Holy Grail of America's greatness; so at Yale from Monday to those long sullen Friday afternoons, she kept a tight vise on the all-consuming fire that burned within her; but now it was Friday night, and Friday nights belonged to Rory. Rory knew, too, at long last, the fire could be fed.
The train stopped. Rory stepped off into the dark night, a sleek black silhouette, whose gleaming crosses and sapphire eyes shimmered like beacons, summoning one and all to this frail willowy goddess of lust and desire. Yes, this was Sin City, a place where even the innocent - were guilty.
*****
Boss Man ruled Sin City with an iron fist. Grotesquely fat, with a bulbous nose and pock-marked face, the stench of corruption hung over him like a dead fish. The only son of a minister, he had grown up in the decaying streets of Sin City unwanted and unloved. Even as a kid he was grossly overweight.
Constantly picked on, daily beatings from the stronger, taller, more popular kids were his fate in life. He was an outcast in a city of outcasts.
But what Boss Man lacked in looks and personality and intelligence, he more than made up for in the depth of his hatred and the passion with which he pursued it. After one particularly brutal beating by a neighborhood bully, as he lay there on the ground, half his front teeth knocked out, bloodied and ashamed, he vowed he would make not just the bully, but all humanity, pay for the humiliation he had been put through. Boss Man kept his vow. He saw a tire iron amid the litter of the blood-soaked sidewalk. He grabbed it and charged up behind the bully, a look of blind hate and rage in his eyes, and - wham! - whacked him across the back of the head. The bully collapsed in a broken heap to the ground. Exhilarated at his new found power, Boss Man hit him again and again. The bully writhed on the ground, convulsing in pain. Soon blood splattered everywhere. Eventually Boss Man's arms began to tire, but still he continued to pound him. A police siren suddenly shrieked. His heart racing, Boss Man took off and disappeared into the night. Boss Man would find out later that he had killed the bully. No one ever messed with Boss Man again.
Over time, Boss Man would fight and claw his way to the top of the Sin City leadership. He now ruled the city, holding the power of life and death over rich and poor alike. He had indeed conquered the world of men. The world of women, however, would be a different matter altogether.
The whore Angelica was the only one or thing Boss Man ever loved. Angelica wasn't like the whores of Old Town. Cultured and refined, she lived in a mysterious mansion sitting atop a hill. Strikingly beautiful, with polished olive skin, dark hair, and piercing green eyes, Angelica had a natural grace that few women possess. Angelica was the type of woman men have gone to war over.
During his rise to power, Boss Man had often heard men talk of Angelica, of the raptures of pleasure she had transported them to. But Boss Man could never bring himself to call upon her. His rather rigid sense of honor prevented him. He felt that only when he had reached the very pinnacle of power did he have the right to do so. To do so before then would insult both her and him. Instead, he kept to his usual haunts, the dark alleys of Old Town, where he was serviced by an innumerable parade of licentious young women. But a peculiar thing, and a constant source of frustration to him, was that he could never climax with the whores of Old Town. He had never climaxed with any woman. He never could figure out why.
Once he became ruler of Sin City, Boss Man felt that he had at last earned the right to be with Angelica. The secret love he had nursed in his heart for her was now matched by his power and position. He had her summoned to his quarters. He had a stately meal laid out for them. They ate. He was nervous, his stomach in knots. But Angelica, the whore who reigned supreme above all other whores, had the power to put any man at ease, and did so with Boss Man. Soon the air was alive with laughter and gaiety. They retired to his bedroom. With a bucket of champagne, luscious fresh fruit, and finely whipped mousse at their side, they enjoyed the moment. Soon it came time for love play. Angelica began her glorious symphony of lovemaking, and soon had Boss Man in ecstasy. But even she could not make him climax.
She rolled off of him. She wiped the sweat from her brow. She laughed, not a contemptuous laugh, but one of compassion, for she loved all men. But Boss Man, in his rage and frustration, did not see it that way. Incensed, he grabbed the ice-pick from the champagne bucket and plunged it into Angelica's neck. The blood splurted out. Angelica cried out in pain, but there was no one to hear it.
The poor woman fought for her life, but it was a losing battle. Just as she took her last breath, Boss Man felt something wet between his legs. He looked down and discovered his great, dark secret: he had climaxed, but could only do so at the precise moment he had extinguished the life of a woman.
Over the years, Boss Man would climax with hundreds of women.
*****
It had been a long, brutal day for Detective Misty McCoy and Detective Shannon "Snuff" Jackson. All the days were long in Sin City, but Fridays were the worst. Being the first day of the long weekend, the baser human instincts seemed to come to the fore, sin and debauchery spinning completely out of control.
The day began with a gruesome find: a young girl, no more than fourteen, strangled to death, her body dumped in a trash dumpster in one of the more seedier parts of town. There was what appeared to be semen stains on the girl's dress, though they couldn't say for sure. They would have to wait for the coroner's report to see if she had been raped.
They surveyed the crime scene, but turned up little. About the only thing concrete they found was a speck of torn flesh underneath the fingernail of the girl's right index finger, evidence she may have fought back, possibly scratching or clawing her assailant. Forensics would be able to tell them if the DNA matched anyone in their databases.
Since it was near lunch time, they decided to grab a bite to eat, then come back and canvas for witnesses. They were having lunch in a neighborhood greasy spoon when a call came in: shots fired on Canal Street, which was only a half mile away. They high-tailed it out of there and took off in their gleaming white caddy. They were the first to arrive at the crime scene, a dingy apartment in a beat-up old tenement. They found a woman, her face hideously battered, cowering in the corner, a revolver dangling limp from her hand. Across from her sprawled on the floor was her mortally wounded husband, shot four times in the chest and twice in the head. She had emptied the barrel into him. Detective McCoy disarmed the woman and handcuffed her. It was obvious from her wounds that she had been beaten by her husband, probably over an extended period of time. Still, she continued to cower there. It was as if, after finally summoning the courage to stand up for herself, she now retreated back into the meekness or whatever it was that kept her going.
This was pretty much a cut and dried case, since it was obvious who committed the crime and why. Detective Jackson liked the cut and dried cases. "Keep it simple," she would constantly tell her younger, less seasoned partner. And they did. As for the legality of what the woman did - whether murder or self defense - that would be for the courts to decide, which is how they liked it.
The detectives never did get to finish their lunch. They soon found themselves investigating a bank where a robbery had taken place earlier in the day. The bank abutted Old Town. The detectives told themselves they were going to get back to the crime scene of the young girl found murdered in the trash dumpster, but hadn't so far. That's the way police work worked in Sin City. It was a constant struggle to keep your head above water, to hold the tide back.
At the bank a security guard and the perp had exchanged gunshots. Mercifully no one was hurt. The perp had gotten away with a couple thousand dollars in cash for his trouble. Detective McCoy was in the back, reviewing video tape from a hidden camera, as Detective Jackson interviewed witnesses. Suddenly, a call came in: reports of a disturbance, of a woman screaming. The address was only a couple blocks away, so Snuff grabbed McCoy and they raced off. A couple minutes later they were at the address, an abandoned warehouse on the periphery of Old Town proper.
Guns drawn, they kicked in the battered front door. It was pitch black inside. Stepping about slowly, warily, McCoy's flashlight cut through the darkness like a knife. McCoy motioned to Jackson. She thought she heard something in the back of the cavernous warehouse. They made their way to the back. That's when they saw it: behind a stack of rotting pallets, a man had his hands locked around a woman's throat as he forced himself on her.
"Hold it right there!" Jackson yelled, her gun zeroed in on the perpetrator. The man did. He stood up, his penis dangling from his pants. Without the slightest hint of embarrassment, he zipped himself up. McCoy focused the flashlight on the man's face. It was Boss Man.
"Oh shit," Jackson said to herself. Yes indeed, "oh shit."
There comes a time in every person's life when the essential character of that person is revealed. A person who is a liar and thief, for instance, in a moment of supreme crisis - a ball rolls out into the street, a child races after it, suddenly a car appears, and in an instant, that person becomes more than what they were, saves the child, perhaps even at the expense of their own life. At the same time, a person who considers themself to be honest, finds a bank bag filled with money, and instead of turning it over to the authorities, keeps it. The thing is, the essential essence of what that person really is, is revealed.
McCoy and Jackson now faced such a moment. They knew it. Oddly, Boss Man seemed to know it too.
Not that the two detectives were saints. You don't become a cop in Sin City looking for sainthood. Jackson was not unknown to take a few dollars under the table for "favors" from the politicos who run things. And McCoy was known to frequent Old Town, and not just on official business, having a weakness for sweet young things in tight skirts. But McCoy, in particular, being the younger and greener of the two, still held out hope for some kind of redemption, a cleansing rain that would somehow wash away all her and humanity's sins. Jackson held no such hope. She had seen too much. And after all, she had earned the moniker "Snuff" for a reason: when someone was beyond the law, and yet justice still demanded to be done, she was sometimes called upon to "snuff" out that person's existence in the name of the greater good. "Snuff" also referred to the particular way she dispensed her unique brand of justice.
But Boss Man wasn't beyond the law. He was the law.
"I believe we have ourselves a conundrum," he said in that booming, corrosive voice of his. His eyes brimmed with confidence. Across his left cheek there was a deep gash, obviously caused by his victim, a full-bodied, young woman of twenty or so. He stared down at her as she struggled to cover herself up. "Or do we?"
He laughed. Roared really. The two detectives eyed each other uneasily. The contempt in Boss Man's voice cut too close to the bone.
"Sir . . ." Jackson said, then cut herself short. That was all she could muster. Boss Man smirked. A Cheshire cat smirk. He could now see, if he had a scintilla of doubt before, that he was going to get away with yet another of his many crimes.
"You do have me at a disadvantage, seein's how you have caught me in a rather indelicate position, so to speak. But I'm a generous man, I'm willing to forget all that. So why don't you two fine officers run along so me and this young lady here can finish our business? Live and let live is what I say. Ha ha."
Jackson glanced down at the girl as she lay there, disheveled, half nude, shaking, frightened. Jackson's face grew hard, implacable.
"I'm going to have to ask you to step aside, Sir," Jackson said. Boss Man laughed again. It was an ominous laugh.
"When I said me and the young lady here wanted to finish our business, that wasn't a request."
Detective McCoy pulled Jackson aside, out of earshot.
"Snuff, what are you doing? Let's go."
"He can go. But the girl comes with us."
"Snuff, you got some kind of death wish? Do you know who that is?"
"Right now I don't give a damn who the hell he is!"
"Well I sure as hell do. Keep it simple, right? Well, here is simple for you: men like him get away with b.s. a thousand times worse than this every second of every day. So he roughs her up a little. She's getting paid good money for her trouble. That's her problem, not ours."
"McCoy, if we walk, what do you think happens to her?"
"She goes back whoring on the streets."
"You don't believe that for one second, and neither do I."
"Let's get out of here, before you do something you regret."
McCoy grabbed her by the arm and physically coaxed her toward the exit. Boss Man suddenly cried out, "You know, I love it when they scream." McCoy and Jackson stopped in their tracks. They turned around.
"Now take this one here, boy, is she a screamer." He reared back his right hand and smacked her hard across the face. The woman screamed in pain. "But she's nothing like the one I had this morning. Boy, was she feisty. Young too. Barely out of puberty. I like 'em young and ornery, hey hey."
Detectives McCoy and Jackson made the connect in the same instant: Boss Man had raped and murdered the girl that was found in the trash dumpster this morning. Jackson turned to McCoy.
"It makes sense." Jackson exclaimed.
"Yeah . . . look at his face. That was his skin under her finger nail."
Jackson thought things over, then said, "Hey, you remember the Thompson case --"
"That was almost two years ago."
"A young prostitute, maybe fifteen, raped, murdered. Forensics said the DNA came back as inconclusive, couldn't get a positive ID. We always wondered about that."
"Yeah . . . In the last two years, we've had what, maybe six rape-homicides come back as DNA inconclusive. What are the odds of that happening?"
"About a billion to one."
"What if it was him?" Jackson said.
"It was him," McCoy added decisively. "And --"
"And he's got forensics and just about everybody else covering for him. I'll be damn!"
Their faces were flushed, like two blind people who could suddenly see. They turned to Boss Man. Their faces were now hard as ice. He in turn laughed that cynical, contemptuous laugh of his.
"It's good to know that the taxpayers of this city are getting their money's worth. You are two bright, smart officers. Not that it will do any good, mind you."
He grabbed the girl by the hair and threw her down on a stack of pallets on her stomach. He pulled her panties down. He then unzipped himself and moved behind her to take his pleasure. McCoy screamed "No!" She pulled out her sidearm and - BANG! BANG! - shot him twice in the groin. He keeled over in pain, blood pouring from the stump of his decapitated penis.
"You fuckin' dyke! You shot me! You shot me!"
McCoy stood there, shocked. Jackson was shocked. The girl too was shocked.
Jackson walked over and knelt beside the reeling Boss Man. She then turned to the girl.
"Go . . . Go!"
The girl took off. Jackson focused on Boss Man.
"You fat, miserable bastard. You know, it's going to be a pleasure snuffing your life out," Jackson said. She covered up his mouth with one hand, and his nose with the other. He struggled furiously at first, and being a big bull of a man, at one point was almost able to break free. But being starved of oxygen sapped his strength. His face turned blue, and the oxygen-starved veins bulged out. Finally, he grew motionless and still. Jackson released her grip. It was done. Boss Man was dead.
*****
Jackson was at the wheel as their caddy glided to a stop in an alley in one of Old Town's most notorious neighborhoods. The strobing red neon light from a dive across the street reflected off the giant white fins of the magnificent machine, like a phantom lighthouse luring seamen to their doom.
They had left the body of Boss Man in the warehouse. They had thought about dumping it in the river, but decided against it, knowing it would only buy them a little time. The truth of the matter was they knew it wouldn't take long before the police were able to piece together what had happened. You don't kill someone of the magnitude of Boss Man and expect to tell the tale over a warm fire to your grandchildren. Bottom line, this was most likely their last night on earth and they knew it.
But there was to be no second thoughts, no last minute regrets. These were hard women in a hard world. As far as they were concerned, Boss Man got what he deserved. Justice had been done. End of story.
A lithe, waifish figure approached the driver's door of the convertible. It was Rory.
"You gals looking for some fun?" Rory asked in a coquettish voice. Jackson replied, "What's your name?"
"Becky," Rory responded.
"What's an innocent like you doing in a place like this?"
"I might say the same about you," Rory answered back. McCoy broke out laughing.
"Whoa, she's got a mouth on her." Jackson smiled, "touché."
Jackson suddenly turned pensive, her eyes reflecting a world weariness and inner sorrow. Instinctively, Rory could feel that something terrible had happened to these women this night, something unimaginable. Rory reached into the convertible and stroked her hand across Jackson's face. Jackson cracked a half smile. That's what Rory could do, bring a little sunshine into a barren existence.
"Do it good," Jackson said. "Do it reeeeal good."
Rory climbed into the convertible in the front seat. She kissed Jackson deep in the mouth. She unbuttoned Jackson's blouse, and thrust her lips onto Jackson's ample breasts and hardened nipples. The ripples of pleasure tore through Jackson in unbroken waves. Rory then turned to Misty. She plunged her left hand into Misty's pants. Her finger found her aching womanhood. Misty moaned, softly at first, and then in an ever-increasing crescendo of rapture. So it was that Rory serviced both women, the love making lasting long into the night. Rory became a willing vessel of their every desire, giving them both pain and pleasure.
*****

The vast stillness seemed to stretch to infinity as Rory's train raced for home. Rory sat quietly in her chair, exhausted, and yet every pore of her throbbing body alive. She reflected on yet another Friday night to remember. But there was so much more to this Friday than Rory could ever know. By next Friday Detectives McCoy and Jackson would most likely be dead. And there would be a new ruler of Sin City to replace the murdered Boss Man. But that's the way Sin City worked. Everything would be different, yet oddly the same.
Rory watched as the shadows of the great metropolis began to fade in the distance, and finally disappeared. Next Friday there would be new adventures and new possibilities waiting for her in the terrible, awful majesty that was Sin City.

The End