The Whorehouse That Jack Built Page 4

  “Unnnnhhh! Yerrr! ‘Ere we go!”

  Darling suddenly pulled the bottle neck out of herself with a wet pop and threw it against the far wall with a smash; as if she had removed a bung the whore pissed herself, a rope of bright yellow leaping out between her legs to splash the already blood soaked sheets she lay on. She cackled as the stream puddled and overflowed the bed, a thunderous rush of vinegar-urine so steaming-strong that it stung the albino’s sensitive eyes even though he stood yards from the bed.

  He felt the tears flow down his cheeks. It made him nostalgic for a second; it had been a long time since he had cried from any kind of emotion.

  Darling kicked her heels in glee, splashing piss every which way.

  “Climb aboard!” she crowed, “Come and plug me up if ya can!”

  The albino pulled at his cock and walked towards the laughing whore, his bare feet sticking and unsticking from boards painted with drying blood and then stepping into the growing pool of urine that waterfalled from the bed.

  Hail Mary full of grace... radiant with her pregnancy...

  Each of the Vestal whores was a flesh and blood perversion of one of the Nazarene’s miracles. Like in a Black Mass where the altar was replaced with the body of a prostitute and the Host was the blood and flesh of infants, so each of the Vestals was a mockery of one of the testaments of Jesus’s ministry.

  Turning water into wine...

  Wine into urine.

  By the time he reached the foot of the bed and knelt one knee onto the sopping mattress he was at full mast, his swollen purple glans as fat as a giant plum, and the whore had stopped laughing as she gazed along the vein-straining length of him.

  “Well, well,” she said, smirking as he crawled up between her thighs, “’Oo’s a big boy then?”

  She grunted, straining; an extra hard stream of piss shot up his belly and chest. She burst out cackling again, clearly insane.

  “Put a cork in it,” said the albino, gripping her bony hips, and so saying he stuffed the fat fist of his glans into her and shoved the first seven inches in. The piss stream stopped as her stretched full cunt pinched her urethra shut.

  “Uggghhhnnn,” Darling gasped, then laughed, “Oh fack me, treacle! Fack me!”

  He pulled back, rammed her again, pulled back, rammed, each time being squirted with piss.

  Then he stopped.

  “Ugggh... Hmmm? Izzat it?” she leered up into his face, her crazy eyes dancing, “Crook it in twice and squirt dearie? Eh? Faugh! Should’ve known it was all for show!”

  The albino said nothing. The stench of her decaying teeth and sour wine was making it difficult to set himself to the task of destroying her cunt, but what was worse was he couldn’t get a good grip, every surface of skin slippery with piss.

  Darling squirmed under him, squeezing and rubbing herself up and down the length of fat cock inside her.

  “C’mon ya snifflin’ shit,” she growled, “Blow yer load and give up! Yer damned and ya know it, so shoot yer fuck already!”

  The albino took hold of the laces that bound her corset, finally securing a proper grip.

  “Better,” he muttered, and then he really started to fuck her, pulling out and finally slamming the whole thirteen inches of himself up into her cunt so hard he smashed her head against the blood-crusty wall. His grip secure he pounded her back and forth, turning her into a rag doll unable to resist.

  The whore squawked and howled, taken surprise by the sudden ferocity of the attack as the colossal cock split her. As used as she was to being violated with bottles, cudgels, fists, the albino’s immense column of engorged flesh was something else entirely. It was HUGE and it had a PULSE, a throb louder than her own heart had ever been, when there had still been a heart to beat within her.

  Flesh on flesh he SAW…

  She was seven years old an orphan taken in by the sisters of Our Lady of Sorrow now due to make her First Holy Communion and Father Finuncane took a special interest in getting her ready for it he insisted on giving her a Very Private lesson in how she should receive the Host into her mouth he had made her kneel down and close her eyes and open her mouth and then something that smelled bad and tasted meaty was in her mouth and Father Finuncane told her he was going to give her communion wine and her mouth had flooded with hot salty musty tasting fluid she had swallowed as much as she could but it overflowed her mouth and she was so afraid of the Sacred wine spilling upon the ground that she had used her hands as a bowl to catch it but when it touched her palms they blossomed into ragged wounds through which the golden stream poured.

  Father Finuncane made her promise to keep the miracle a secret until he could confirm the matter with his brother priests and it wasn’t long before she found herself showing many many many more priests how she took communion and the wonderful thing that happened to her when their piss spilled from her mouth into her hands and after that the church bought her and she entered the ranks of the Little Children who Suffered.

  She grew up but unlike so many of the other Little Children she was not murdered when she grew old beyond the tastes of priests on account of her gift but a young adult is stronger and craftier than a child and when she saw her chance she escaped and found herself living upon the streets of London but all the gin she could swallow for which she exchanged every coin she made upon her back could not get the taste of piss out of her mouth and she kept her stigmata a secret but secrets get out and one night she was approached by a man who was interested only in those holes in her hands rather than between her legs and he was certainly no priest no he was a different kind of monster who was heading to the New World and that she would be joining him...

  And so Mary Maggie Darling became the acolyte of the dwarf, who helped him select his victims, to lure them, to keep a lookout whilst he conducted the rites that lead them out of this life and he cut out their cunts and they became the Gashes he would later use…

  The pain and sadness of her years as worthless street meat, her conversion by the architect and her elevation to a Vestal of the Half-World, to glorious insanity and endless horror... all were forgotten by a sensation she had only a trace memory of ever having had before. Beyond the pain of her cervix being smashed, beyond the pain of her pussy being stretched so wide it felt old wounds might bloom, healed vaginal tears from who knew how many savage rapes ready to split wide again... there was joy.

  It felt like the promise of dawn, the hint of light on the horizon of darkness.

  The albino was muttering in her ear.

  “...thy kingdom come, thy will be done...”

  Mary Maggie Darling didn’t know what a sexorcism was, but suddenly something savaged screwed itself more firmly into her spirit, the worm of corruption that had made her rotten soul its home, recognising the joy for what danger it posed.

  Her eyes darkened, both good and blown pupils suddenly swallowed by a maelstrom of black. Her hands gripped the albino’s buttocks, dug cracked and split fingernails into his flesh.

  “Wrong hole preacher!” she snarled, and began to buck back against him.

  Wrong hole.

  Shit.

  The albino stopped thrusting and tried to push himself away from her, knowing how close to losing everything he was. Her ruined nails carved burrows in his buttocks and back, clinging onto him even as her hips continued to grind against him, as the walls of her worn pussy clamped his cock and tried to prevent his inches sliding out before he came.

  He pulled slowly, getting almost half of himself out before he felt the dangerous twitching in the tip that said he was about to blow.

  The albino loosed one hand from the laces of her corset and punched the whore in the face.

  She spat out two teeth, and she laughed.

  “Yearr, preacher, thassit! Knock me fackin’ teeth out, show me you care!”

  The albino made as if to swing again but did not, instead suddenly pitching himself sideways, throwing his whole body weight to one side with his feinted punch. Caught off
guard and her grip as slippery with piss as his had been, Darling lost her handholds on his flesh and that was enough; the last half foot of his penis slid free of her cunt with a wet sucking.

  The albino hit the floor and felt himself come, his balls contracting and spasming as ivory fuck shot in gluey strings out of his massive cock across the whore’s thigh.

  They splattered, sizzled, burned.

  Darling screeched as the clammy skin of her leg began to smoke, as if the semen were acidic.

  The albino groaned, cupping his testicles.

  The voice of the Motherfucker Superior was in his head:

  We take the word TESTIFY from the Latin word TESTES. In Roman court a man swore not on a Bible as now, but cupped that which was most precious to him.

  “What the fack izzis?!” howled Darling, hands hovering over her thigh but not daring to touch the hissing fluid that bubbled there, “What the fack is wrong with yer muck?!”

  The albino lying on the ground gripped his still firm cock in one hand and lifted it clear of his testicles to show the branding; his scrotum was scarred with a burnt-in icthysis, the fish symbol of the early Church.

  His balls were blessed. His every ejaculation was Kingdom Come.

  She snarled.

  “Yearr, well it don’t matter no-how,” she said, glancing at her peeling, blistered skin, “When a man drops ‘is muck thassit, ‘e’s all in. So why don’t you be a good boy...” one gloved hand had slid beneath the filthy pillow under her head, “and just fackin’ die now?”

  She pulled out a straight razor and sat up on the bed.

  The albino shook his head, and cock in fist wagged the maggot end at her.

  Hail Mary FULL of grace...

  “Ain’t satisfied,” he told her, stiffening.

  Unsteady after the assault on her vault and the bubble-burnt flesh of her thigh, Mary Maggie Darling tottered up from the bed just as the albino scooted back and clambered to his heels.

  Urine streamed down her leg, washing away the last of his clinging, burning semen. Her corset was half untied and sagging on one side, her hair in rat tails around her face, her blown pupil glaring out from amidst a greasy black skein.

  “I’m goin’ to peel yer fackin’ face and wipe my arse with it,” she spat, razor blade snatching back and forth in the air.

  (heard that one a few times before)

  The albino stood naked before her, peggo already hard and ready to go again, gunless holsters at his hips and spurs on his ankles.

  Wrong hole... but he had an idea which was the right one...

  He held his arms out wide, a cross, a temptation. A mockery of her affliction.

  Darling screeched and lunged, more fury than skill. The albino stepped back twice, missing one, two swings of the blade, and on the third grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him, turning his hip into her belly and flipping her over it like a greased ball bearing.

  She did a full flip and slammed face first onto the crusted floorboards, her collarbone snapping, the razor dashing away. The wind knocked from her, Darling could only gasp.

  The albino was on her in a moment, slamming one knee into the small of her back and rabbit punching her kidneys as hard as he could.

  “Piss blood, whore,” he told her, grabbing her gloved hands and pulling them behind her.

  Wrong hole...

  He gripped her wrists in one large hand and stripped the fingerless gloves with his other to reveal the weeping, bloody wounds in her palms, as if rude nails had been pounded through them.

  Stigmata. The wounds of the Nazarene manifest.

  This was why the architect had begun the ritual with this otherwise faceless whore. Somehow her tainted flesh was a conduit to the mystery, rending itself in sympathetic agony to the crucified man of sorrows.

  “Gerroff me ya fackin’ bastard!” screeched Darling, finding her voice again and struggling, “Gerrof me, gerroff...”

  The albino jerked her arms up tighter, nearly pulling them from their sockets and drove his knee harder into her spine.

  Her hands were crossed one over the other, the wounds lined up.

  The Motherfucker Superior’s words, one of the catechisms, the parables, the endless lessons driven into his skull at the seminary;

  It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle...

  He rammed his cock into the double hole of the stigmata, shoving half a foot of muscle straight through the palms of her hands. The long bones of her fingers were splayed wide at his passing, his girth pushing them apart.

  “What the fack...” Darling croaked.

  The albino knelt more fully on her, a knee pressed into each kidney, and forced her to give him the ultimate handjob, sawing his whole thirteen inches back and forth, fucking the bones and tendons lubricated with the blood that was spackled in prints across the walls.

  He pictured the Blessed Mother in his mind, heavy with Childe, and wrapped his hands around the other half of his cock, sticking through the other side of the whore’s hands.

  Hail Mary full of...

  “GERROFF ME!”

  Darling’s violent outburst, a roared demand and a massive spasm of her muscles, caught the albino off-guard. Like an untamed mustang she heaved and thrashed under him.

  He had nothing to support himself and found himself pitched backward. He was still gripping his cock, and as his whole weight was thrown his mammoth rope of blood and veins ripped the whore’s hands in half, splitting up between the middle and ring fingers.

  She screeched as the albino’s shoulders hit the filthy floor, knocking the breath from him and bouncing the back of his skull off the boards. He lay where he was a moment, stunned, hips still jerking rhythmically.

  “Me ‘ands! Me fackin’ ‘ands, what’ve you done to me fackin’ ‘ands!”

  The albino raised his head a little, dazed.

  The whore had turned over and sat up, her corset almost hanging off her, her legs wide to displaying her angry cunt. She was staring at him through the ruins of her stigmata, bloody white roots that leaned at impossible angles to one another. She looked like a ruined china doll.

  Then she started to heal.

  As the albino watched, the long bones of her hand folded back together, like a collapsed fan being closed up, and the split skin began to knit an insect-busy seething of tissue.

  Erectoplasm, said a memory, a theoretical lesson at the seminary on the biology of Hell, According to a belief of the Hindoo’s, it takes thirty drops of blood, to make a drop of bone marrow, and thirty drops of marrow to make a single drop of semen. And if “the blood is the life...”

  All the damned were formed of the same primal jelly. It was why the Half-World was in business, the collection of the raw material.

  Darling’s hands had healed, save for the weeping stigmata.

  “Still got the wrong ‘oles, preacher,” she spat, and picked up the straight razor from where it had fallen.

  The albino clambered to his feet almost as the whore found hers, barely upright swift enough to dodge the next swing of the blade, Darling’s face a wild grin of crusted teeth and domino eyes.

  She grunted with each swing, the blade whickering the damp air, and the albino felt the wind on his lips as he snapped his neck back only barely.

  He fell back upon the piss drenched bed, his calves knocked from under him.

  Darling howled and whipped the razor over her razor, aiming for his balls.

  The blade cleaved into his thigh, narrowly missing the fleshy eggs aimed at.

  Hissing at the bite of steel, the albino swung his legs wildly like an animal on its back; his right heel clipped the whores waist.

  Darling squawked, her eyes widening, then with a groan pitched onto the bed next to him.

  She lay face down in the urine, moaning.

  “Uhhhhnnnn... cunt...”

  The albino lay next to her breathing hard, puzzled. The sound she was making was familiar. All men knew it, and rarely discovered that women c
ould know it too. But it made no sense; he had felt the heel of his foot hit her in the side of her waist, felt the whalebone in her corset crack. The moaning of the whore was that of a creature struck below the waist, between the legs.

  He looked down at his thigh; saw the first inch of the razor dug into his flesh. Wincing, he pulled it free and flung it far across the room.

  When he was once more stood, beside the bed, the whore had rolled herself over and was hugging her side.

  Wondering, he reached down and pulled her fingers away. She batted at his hand.

  “Nooo...”

  Before she could stop him he ripped her corset off.

  Wrong ‘ole.

  Still got the wrong ‘oles, preacher.

  In the side where he had kicked her was a vagina.

  Stigmata; holes in the hands and feet, as if nailed to a cross, crucified... but the fifth wound was a hole in the side where a Roman centurion had speared the dying Nazarene “and blood and water flowed forth.”

  But this wound had labia.

  He heard the dwarf, one of her memories in his own mind:

  Hell needs fuel, lassie. The internal-infernal combustion engines require flesh and fluids in the way that locomotives require coke and coal. But nothing of the unseen world is simple, and special rituals are required to funnel blood and marrow and seed to the engines. Cunts are needed. They are the very gates of life, and as all infernal Lores ran on perversions of the sacred, so the gates of the ultimate mystery are ruined and made ugly. The cunt of a whore, brutally murdered, becomes a Gash in the membrane of the material plane through which God’s children may willingly throw away the gifts He has given them. And Hell, in turn, can birth its children through those upon whom God had wasted a soul...

  A Whitechapel whore had been vivisected and her sex thaumaturgically attached to Darling’s flesh. This was where the first stolen cunt had been hidden, the first keyhole he had to break.

  The albino mounted the bed, his cock hard and righteous, balls swollen with blessed spunk.

  Mary Maggie Darling sensed the danger and tried to roll away.

  “No ya don’t preacher, yer’ll not...”