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Subject: {ASSM} The Saga of Blanche IV: With the Dwarves
Date: Wed, 12 Apr 2000 07:10:02 -0400
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THE SAGA OF BLANCHE, PART IV:
WITH THE DWARVES
by
Frank Saynesberry
(This story is for adults only. If you are under18, or if the
depiction of explicit sex offends you, please don't read it.)
************************************
Standing naked in the stinking, grimy alley, Blanche was a beautiful, but
heartbreaking, portrait of confusion, betrayal, and fear. Not five minutes
earlier, one of her trusted co-workers from O'Smiles Productions, Inc., had
brought her to this shadowy nook in the heart of the Watts district, forced
her to remove all her clothes, and had put her out of his car, which he
instantly drove away. Now, wearing nothing but the blue leather office shoes
that her abductor had allowed her to keep (so as not to cut her feet on the
broken glass scattered throughout the alley), she stood, shivering with fear
and shining with sweat from the sweltering Los Angeles springtime, utterly
confused, utterly helpless. She was nineteen years old, and if a renegade
computer program can be believed, she was the loveliest woman in Southern
California: a place where loveliness, be it natural or manufactured, was not
uncommon. Her hair, black and shining as a raven's wing, fell in gentle
waves to the bottoms of her shoulderblades; her chiseled features, violet
eyes, and naturally-red lips arrested the attention of all who saw her; and
the natural curves of her 5'7" body undulated gently but hypnotically, like
waves lapping some heavenly shore. Her 34" breasts jutted boldly, but not
brazenly, capped with strawberry-colored nipples that were now puckered and
stiff in the dank air of the alley. Her soft, flawless white skin, which
bore neither suntan nor tan lines, seemed to illuminate the senuous
perfection of her body, sweeping downward from just below the nipples, across
her ribcage and utterly flat belly, to the gentle swell of her hips and
thighs. Only her black pubic hair interrupted the warm, promising snowdrift
that was her body: and it had been cropped close and shaven into the shape of
a heart, its tapered bottom disappearing between her thighs enticingly.
Those thighs were clamped together tightly now, and her hands had flown to
her shoulders is a vain attempt to cover her breasts; for a moment earlier,
she had sensed a presence behind her, and whirled around to see six very
large men standing in the entrance to the alley, leering at her. "Well,
well," said the apparent leader, a tall, heavily-muscled black with a
gleaming, shaven skull and wraparound sunglasses, "just what the fuck do we
have here?" His companions (were there five or six? Blanche was too
terrified to count), all similarly built, all wearing sunglasses and black
leather jackets, laughed and hooted and smacked their lips. As they began to
stroll into the alley toward her, she noticed that the group contained two
blacks, one white, two Latinos, probably Mexican, and one enormous Oriental,
who must have been at least 6'6".
"Li'l white girl, d'you come all the way down here just to see me?" smirked
the leader, coming closer. "Fuck no, main," laughed one of the Latinos.
"Chica's come lookin' for some Latin loveeng!" His fellow-Latino slapped his
arm playfully and laughed, "Si, mano, but she wan's eet from a main, so you
can just step aside!" The second black, who remained silent, merely rubbed
his crotch suggestively and waggled his hips at the terrified girl.
It was at this point that Blanche's fear and confusion took over completely,
and as her violet eyes rolled back in her head, her body loosened in a faint.
But she never fell, because as her knees buckled, the black who had spoken
first was there to catch her, and he swept her up in his leather-clad arms,
where she lay insensate, head lolling back, thighs parted, her heart-framed
pussy revealed for all the men to see.
"Main, I don' care who goes first, but I'm gonna fuck thees girl in 'bout two
minutes!" one of the Latinos exclaimed in a choked voice, overcome by
Blanche's perfection. Then, for the first time, the huge Oriental, who had
been bringing up the rear, spoke in a voice that would accept no
contradiction: "Nacho, you not gonna do shit. Nobody touches that pussy
'till we get it back to the crib and see what the Chief says." Reluctantly,
grudgingly, the others mumbled their agreement.
One of the men slipped off his black jacket and covered Blanche's torso with
it. The others formed a circle around the man who carried her, and they
started out on their journey back to the secret hideaway of the Devil's
Dwarves, where their seventh member and undisputed leader, the Chief, was
waiting.
***************************************************************
Anyway, that's the way one of the Dwarves described the scene to me later,
and I've got no reason to disbelieve him. If It didn't happen exactly that
way, it was very close. Suffice it to say that Blanche's virtue was not
compromised by the Dwarves, not in that initital meeting, anyway: they were
thugs, not animals, and they didn't simply fall on the girl as though she
were a new bitch in heat. Poor Nacho was so excited that he actually came in
his pants on the walk back to "headquarters;" and, if truth were told,
several others came pretty close. But, except for a few surreptitious
strokes and squeezes of the girl's unconscious body when they thought the
others weren't looking, she was not molested.
Meanwhile, even as Blanche was being abducted or adopted by the Devil's
Dwarves, a menacing-looking man was driving a menacing-looking automobile out
of the Watts District, headed for Hollywood Boulevard. It was our old friend
Vitaly Arkhoff in his HumVee, who, having followed his Mistress Coyreen's
orders only halfway, now found himself between a rock and a hard place. He
had been ordered to take Blanche to a remote wilderness, kill her, and bring
her heart back to the Porno Queen as proof of her death; but once he met
Blanche, and talked with her, things had changed. There had been a time when
Vasily could slaughter Afghan rebels with no conscience whatsoever, and he
had been a valiant fighter when his hero, Yeltsin, had routed Gorbachev and
established the Russian Republic. But now, he had been completely undone by
this wide-eyed, trusting American teenager, and had been unable to kill her.
So, in an act both noble and cowardly, he had simply dropped her into the
"wilderness" of Watts. She would undoubtedly die, but Vitaly would not kill
her.
The job was only half-done, Vitaly kept repeating to himself as he slipped
the evil-looking vehicle in and out of the Los Angeles traffic. He was very
conscious of the Igloo picnic cooler on the floor behind his seat,
half-filled with ice, awaiting Blanche's bloody heart. Vhat vill I tell
Meestress Coyreen? he wondered. She vas insane! And she vould not take
"nyet" for an answer! He had to persuade her that he had accomplished his
assignment as ordered. And so it was that the necessary course of action
came together in his mind.
He waited until rush hour, killing nothing but time, and then proceeded to
one of Sunset Boulevard's least-glamorous areas, an area almost entirely
occupied by porn shops, massage parlors, and "working girls" on every corner.
As the shadows of dusk began to lengthen, he cruised slowly down the street,
assessing the various girls until he found the one that seemed most
appropriate. He nosed the big HumVee in to the curb and rolled down the
passenger-side window.
Within 30 seconds, the girl he'd spotted had clattered over to the car on her
platform shoes. Her bright-purple hair, done up in a punk-style mohawk,
accentuated her garish purple eyeshadow and black lipstick; Vitaly could see,
through the sheer fabric of her tank-top, that both her nipples were pierced.
She was, to put it mildly, not his type of woman; but the important thing
was that she was the same general height and shape of Blanche, and probably
the same age. She would do.
The girl leaned in the window. "Hi, babe!" she exclaimed around her
bubble-gum. "Nice ride! You lookin' for a date?" She bent over a bit more,
so as to reveal more cleavage.
Vitaly, not entirely familiar with American social customs, replied, "No
date, pliss. Am looking for blow chob." The girl squealed with laughter.
"Well, okay, honey, that's fun, too! You got a hundred on ya?"
Vitaly didn't blink an eye at the outrageous price. "A hundred, yas," he
said. "Pliss to get in car. You geef me blow chob while I drive." The girl
laughed again, opened the door, and plopped down in the seat. "Just don't
drive too far, honey," she said, "I don't want to lose my corner.... Say, you
don't sound like you're from around here. Where you from, babe?"
"Zaint Petersburg," Vitaly mumbled. "Oh, Florida, huh?" the girl chirped.
"I used to be married to a guy in Florida! It's a small fuckin' world after
all, huh?"
Vitaly reached inside his coat pocket and produced a hundred-dollar bill; the
girl snatched it from his hand and stuffed it in her tiny handbag. "Thanks,
big guy," she said. "Now, let's see what we've got to work with here." She
leaned over and expertly popped the snaps and zipper on his trousers, and in
a moment had freed his cock, which was stiffening at her touch. Vitaly may
have lost his devotion to Coyreen, but his prick was still aching from her
teasing lips earlier in the day. In a moment it had swelled to nearly nine
inches. "Oh, baby," breathed the whore, "I think I know just what you need."
She tugged her halter top down, freeing her pendulous, stretch-marked
breasts, and then began to take Vitaly in her mouth.
She knew what she was doing, of course, and it was not long before her
slurping and bobbing and stroking had brought the Russian to the point of no
return. As his cock began to throb, and he maneuvered the HumVee's steering
wheel with his left hand, his right hand slipped inside his jacket again.
This time, instead of money, he slowly withdrew a needle-pointed icepick, and
he positioned it above the soft spot where the girls's skull met her spine.
Then he began to erupt, his semen bursting into her mouth like a raging tide,
and with many a faked moan of delight, she sucked and swallowed desperately
until he was done. Finally, when she had gulped down the last drop, Vitaly
muttered, "T'ank you," and, slipping his cock from her mouth so that she
would not bite it off by reflex, he drove the icepick upward into the girls's
brain. As she died, he pressed the icepick farther in, until its small
wooden handle was flush against the entry wound. Even when his muscular
wrist twisted the icepick back and forth, slicing her brain to shreds, there
was very little bleeding.
She wasn't really missed, of course; and when her body was found, rotting in
the desert near Newhall, she was far beyond identification. The only thing
that really puzzled the authorities was the savage trauma inflicted on the
brain, compared with the neat, almost surgical precision with which the
heart had been removed.
Vitaly was off the hook, and Coyreen was very happy.
*************************
A few miles away, a tall, lithe man in black Levis, barefoot and nude from
the waist up, stood silently, his arms folded, gazing down thoughtfully on
the still-naked and still-unconscious form of Blanche Snowe, who lay curled
in a fetal position on a dingy mattress on the floor. The man's skin was the
color of a newly-polished copper penny, and although he did not have the
sculpted build of a weightlifter, his tough, resilient muscles shifted and
flexed constantly beneath the skin. His hair was long and jet-black and
pulled back from his face, and hung between his shoulder-blades in a single
braid. From his forehead to his belly, where the jeans hugged his slim
waist, he was marked with dozens of thin white scars, and a few that were
thick and brown, remnants of deep wounds which would never be forgotten. His
nose was slightly bent, his lips were thin and dry, and his eyes were black
as polished coal. He was certainly no older than 30, and probably closer to
25. He did not speak a word as he studied the unconscious girl, but
occasionally nodded slowly, as if agreeing with some conclusion that had just
come to him.
The mattress lay on the floor of an empty bedroom in a small abandoned house
on the outskirts of Watts, once the dwelling of a young family, then a hippie
crash pad, next a crack house, and now, finally, the secret headquarters of
the Devil's Dwaves, smallest and deadliest of Los Angeles' aging street
gangs. All the existing Dwarves had joined as young teens, but now, most
were in their mid-twenties, unmarried, uncommitted, unemployed or
underemployed, and utterly unwanted by society. But then, society hadn't
wanted their parents, either, so fuck society. These were not the dancing
comedians of "West Side Story" or the mindless young fanatics of the
drive-by-shooting variety; these were simply the survivors of the survivors,
understood perfectly by one another, but by no one else on earth. Despite
their different skin colors, they were a tribe; and they were the last of
their tribe.
It was fitting, then, that their sole and undisputed leader was called "The
Chief," even though there was another reason, as well. For now, as he stood
pondering Blanche's fate, with the other six Dwarves gathered in respectful
silence behind him, the big Paiute was understood by all to be the toughest,
smartest, and most resourceful member of the group, and his leadership was
unquestioned. When there were decisions to be made, his was the final word;
when there were disputes to be settled, he was the one to settle them,
preferably by suggesting a face-saving compromise; and when there were
discipline problems, each of the Dwarves, including the massive Chinese, had
been floored by a single lightning blow from one of his calloused, rock-hard
fists. At the present moment, discipline had not yet become a problem, but
he knew that decisions and disputes were imminent.
Benny, the smaller of the two Latinos at 6'3", broke the silence. "'Ay,
Cheef," he whined, "ain't you looked long enough, main? Thees girl's a
Godsend, main. Let's fock her!" Several of the others murmured their
agreement. Ernie, the smooth-skulled black who had carried Blanche from the
alley, added in a low, thoughtful voice, "Ain't none of us touched her,
Chief, except to carry her home. The brothers been real patient. Now, it's
your call: who gets her first?"
Slowly, the Chief turned to face the Dwarves. Ignoring their specific
questions, he asked, "How long would you say she's been out?" Snap, the
Caucasian Dwarf, replied hastily, "Well, she done fell out as soon as she saw
us; I'd say she's been unconscience for about 45 minutes." The others
muttered agreement. "That's an awful long time for anybody to be out, simply
from fainting," the Chief observed. "I think this girl's in shock. And if
we don't do something pretty soon, you guys are gonna be fuckin' a corpse.
Maybe it was the sight of you that made her faint, but we don't know what
happened to her before you found her. Whatever it was, it looks like her
brain just couldn't take it."
"We don' wan' to fuck her brain, main," said Nacho, the large Latino. "We
wan' fuck that poosey, that ass, that mouth!" The other Dwarves laughed and
cackled and high-fived while the Chief remained impassive, glaring at them
silently. When their jests had died down, he spoke. "if you guys are so
fuckin' horny, maybe you'd better have a circle jerk," he said coldly. "But
nobody's fucking this girl when she's in this condition. Anyway, the Dwarves
aren't about rape. Are they, Chang?" His eyes challenged those of the big
Chinese, who turned beet-red, clenched his fists, and finally shook his head.
All the Dwarves knew that Chang had been conceived when his Chinese Mother
was brutally raped by a knife-fighter from the Moro Islands. "All right,"
the Chief said. "Chang, get some blankets and wrap her up. Nacho, go down
to Jake's Pharmacy and get some aspirin and some vitamins and some of that
shit that babies drink, that has all the electrolytes in it. Use your
five-finger discount. Snap, go over to Shiela's crib (are you still seein'
that bitch?) and get some clothes for this chick: they look like they're
about the same size. Oh, and Nacho, grab some soap while you're at the drug
store. She's gonna want a bath, and probably won't dig that Lava stuff that
we all use. Now get your asses moving. We'll see who fucks who when she's
got her mind right." And so the Dwarves scattered, to gather the things they
would need to care for their new guest.
*****************************************************************
It was just after dark when Coyreen, the Porno Queen, sat down at her
dressing-table and began to brush her hair. She wore a sheer, thigh-length
dressing gown that would be discarded as soon as she climbed into bed; she
had already downed her evening's dosage of Placidyl, Valium, and Dalmane, and
had begun washing the pills down with Beefeater gin. In a moment, she heard
a soft, respectful knock on her bedroom door. "Yeah, come on in, whoever the
fuck you are," she yelled. This better not be Miles again, she thought,
hoping for "romance"....but thoughts of her beloved husband vanished when
she saw, in the dressing-table mirrir, the stalwart form of Vitaly Arkhoff,
immaculately clad in his servant's uniform, carrying in his hand the Igloo
ice chest.
"Vasily!" she cried, getting his name wrong as usual, and standing up in a
graceful twirl to face him. "You're back! And you've got...."she stared at
the ice-chest....."is that what I think it is? Is that the little bitch's
heart?" Her eyes glittered; she was practically drooling
"Yes, Meestress, iss her heart," Vitaly muttered, although not specifying
just who he meant. In a second, Coyreen was by his side, greedily snatching
the top off the cooler, and gasping with delight when she saw the still,
stolen organ lying in the chest on a bed of slowly-melting ice. "You did it,
Vasily, you did it!" she shrieked, plunging her hands into the cooler end
pulling out the heart, which she held up before her face to examine. "The
little cunt is dead, and I'm the Finest Queen again!" As she jabbered, dark,
dead blood oozed from the heart, and, mixed with water from the melting ice,
ran down Coyreen's arms and onto her jiggling, excited breasts. Vitaly
looked away, his throat tight, tears forming in his eyes. This was not Miss
Blanche's heart, but it might as well have been. He had delivered her to her
certain doom.
Suddenly, there was a wet "plop," and Vitaly saw the heart lying discarded on
the carpet. Coyreen had ripped off her dressing gown and had dropped onto
the floor on all fours, waggling her ass in Vitaly's direction, her pussy
already open and dripping with excitement. "Well, come on, Vasily," she
snapped, " a deal's a deal! Get down here and fuck my brains out!"
No one can say, of course, what another man's finest hour is. Perhaps
Vitaly's finest hour came when he clutched the steering wheel and allowed
Blanche to escape. But me, I see it differently. I think his finest hour
came when he looked down at his "Meestress," wiggling and squealing on the
floor, and replied in a voice of great dignity, "Madam, Meester Arkhoff does
not wish to fuck you. Meester Arkhoff suggests dat Madam go fuck herself!"
And, with dignity, Vitaly Arkhoff, the free man, turned on his heel and
walked out of Coyreen's house forever.
NEXT:
COYREEN GOES TO WAR
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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