A Sexual Twist

A Sexual Twist
Copyright Emy Naso
http://emynasoerotica.blogspot.com/

A bawdy and sexually explicit take on Oliver Twist

Chapter 1: How Oliver remembers his early years, becomes a lowly clerk and gets his marching orders for asking for more.

It started twenty-six ago. Oliver Twist was born in a less than salubrious part of London. But truth to tell, no one is sure of that fact. He had no parents, or none that made claim to him. So he was not just an orphan but, it was later whispered, an illegitimate child. Teased and ridiculed, his friends called him bastard so often he decided to join the only profession where that appellation would be a standard way of reference. So it was that Oliver became a banker.
Banker, of course, was a grand name for his position. He was a lowly clerk. So lowly, was he, that for his first four years in Hiloans Bank, Inc, he was used as the CEO’s footstool. Joshua Beadle had started in the bank and rapidly worked his way up After the first week he became manager, at the end of the second week, he was made a vice-president and then finally, before the month was out, CEO. He was personally appointed to these exalted positions by the bank’s owner…his father.
Beadle prided himself that no customer entering the bank seeking a loan had ever left without all the money they wanted. Along with the money went an interest rate that climbed so high and so quickly it was known in the trade as mercury thermometer finance. He also resented staff leaving his employ while they were still alive and made them sign onerous contracts to bind them to the bank.
It was the twentieth of the month and the day when Joshua Beadle personally gave out the paychecks. Being December there was a festive air in the bank and a bunch of wilting holly pinned above the entrance. The staff approached Mr. Beadle’s office in alphabetical order, Oliver Twist standing between Amanda Twerp, the sex-pot from Foreign Exchange and Lucy Twipe, a cashier with intriguingly manipulative fingers. He noticed Amanda took a long time in Beadle’s office and Twist innocently wondered if it had anything to do with her understanding of the European monetary system…or her low-cut dress!
As she left, the booming voice of Beadle called, “Twist!”
He entered the enormous office, most of the Brazilian rain forest having been decimated to supply the precious woods for the furniture. Beadle sat perched on a swivel leather chair, his stomach dominating the view. To the right of the CEO stood a row of accountants and to the left a line of lawyers. A thought went through Twist’s mind. What was the collective noun for the legal profession? A carrion of lawyers?
“Your paycheck, Twist,” Beadle’s squeaky voice broke into Oliver’s reverie. Twist took the slip of paper. He saw the miserable amount of final pay.
“What are these deductions, sir?” he timidly asked. Beadle snapped his fingers and one of the dark suited accountants sidled forward.
“Fifteen percent deducted for company pension, invested in the Hiloans Mutual Insurance Corporation; five percent Hiloans Bank charges for depositing your pay in our bank and of course standard charges for use of office space, furniture and air.” The accountant rubbed his hands together in a humble gesture to his boss, and stepped back in line.
“What are you waiting for, Twist?” the gross CEO arrogantly asked.
Twist gulped and said, “Please, sir, I can’t live on this pittance. May I have some more? It is Christmas.”
It wasn’t just silence. This was the world stopping to listen. Beadle’s mouth opened, closed then opened again, in a perfect impersonation of a surprised goldfish.
“The man asked for more,” he said softly. Then more loudly. “He wants more.” Finally in a shriek which carried throughout the building, “MORE! Twist wants more.”
Pandemonium ensued. Four doctors were called to attend to Joshua Beadle. Eventually he dismissed the medical team and got more comfort when Amanda Twerp was urgently summoned from Foreign Exchange and she massaged his wallet to bring down his high blood pressure. The Board was convened and it was decided to immediately put up interest rates as a remedial measure, this action soothing the CEO.
Oliver Twist was frog marched out of Mr. Beadle’s office, taken to his desk and ordered to pack his belongings, and finally escorted to the main door by a fully armed security guard, and deposited on the street. Twist picked himself up, thought about telephoning Michael Moore to see if he wanted to do a documentary on Hiloans Bank Inc, decided against it, and made his way back to his two room apartment.
When he arrived home, he found his few possessions outside, and his apartment bolted. A telephone call from a bank executive to Twist’s landlord had brought a rapid response. Oliver was alone, out in the cold, without a job, no money and very little talent. Still, he smiled as he headed downtown. This was not based on any inner confidence or eternal optimism; the poor thing had been dropped on his head as a child when the other kids at the orphanage were using him as a human cannonball.
It was a week before Christmas. Tinsel and mistletoe were far from his thoughts. Oliver Twist had finally reached that pinnacle in his life where there was nowhere else to go. The gutter.

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Chapter 2: Where Oliver thinks things cannot get worse and they do.

Oliver wandered into one of the most desolate districts of the city. The buildings were shabby, neglected, windswept and inhuman. Another triumph for the city planners and property developers. He trudged around the streets, knocking on doors, trying to get any job he could. Twist asked at numerous restaurants and would have worked in the kitchens doing anything menial. But, no luck. He didn’t have the experience…and wasn’t an illegal immigrant! He wrapped his threadbare coat up around his ears as the wind and snow swirled around in funnels of misery. Everywhere he went, he heard the happy sounds of Christmas, the tinkling of money being wasted, and that song by Bing Crosby.
Turning into an avenue of small shops, he saw the sign for an employment bureau, crossed the road, and hesitating for a moment, as his clothes were filthy and he needed a wash, he went in.
The receptionist immediately sprang into a bored, disinterested pose, finding her nails of far greater concern that Oliver.
“I’m looking for a job,” he said in his timid voice. She adjusted her bra, pushing her breasts around as if they were Christmas baubles. Oliver blinked and wondered if they lit up like the fairy lights.
Without looking up, she handed him a twenty-seven-page form, gave her left breast another nudge and went back to completing the little finger on her left hand.
Oliver sat disconsolately, completing the form as best he could. The questions on sexual and religious orientation had him stumped, so he just put Methodist, and hoped that would cover both spiritual matters and those of the flesh. When completed, he handed it back to the receptionist, who was now holding an animated conversation on the telephone regarding her boyfriend’s demands. As she continued to regale the listener with his weird requests the night before, she tapped Oliver’s details into a computer.
She put down the phone, leaned over and took the feed out from the printer and looked at it with her world-weary expression. She shrugged and gave it, without words, to Oliver.
“Is this the only vacancy you have?” he said despondently.
.“For someone with your lack of experience and skills, that’s it,” she said, and decided to push her boobs around a bit more.
Oliver Twist slunk out of the office, and out onto the sidewalk. Across the street, a Father Christmas ho-ho-hoed and patted his ribs to make sure he was wearing his revolver holster as he was going up to see the kids at the local school.
Again Twist stared at the printout. He shook his head and started the long walk across town. It was at least a job. But what a job…and what a district. He felt things couldn’t get worse. Just above him, totally invisible a guardian angel muttered to himself, You ain’t seen nothing yet, buddy.

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Chapter 3: Where Oliver is hired by a man - he thinks - and Mr. Twist gains knowledge of what the well dressed gent is wearing to work.

London was a glorious city with a memory going back two thousand years. It could be regal, majestic, homely and historical. This district was none of them.
It made the dump where Oliver was born look positively glamorous.
He stood looking at the view. Along the river was the old disused Power Station. It had once belched black smoke from its coal fired furnaces, generating (electricity-delete) town gas and polluting the residents in their small terrace houses. It was built originally in (early-delete) Victorian times when the poor huddled into the city and sweated their labor for the middle classes. Now most of the houses were boarded up. What was once a factory manufacturing asbestos lining - and killing its workers until someone thoughtfully told them the stuff was poisonous - was now the only building in use.
The red brick and grimy façade had metal fire stairs precariously clinging to the building and was surrounded by an old iron corrugated fence. In the yard a fire smoldered as if someone had been burning rubbish. Oliver climbed over the broken gate entrance and saw there was a badly painted sign - KallKwik.
So this was it. The only job in town. His last hope for any sort of happy Christmas. He began to sympathize with the baby in the stable.
Twist pushed open the door, it’s once red paint peeling into dirty oblivion. He walked up three flights of stone stairs, the sound of his footfall echoing into the dust of another time. Finally reaching the top floor, he knocked tentatively and part of him hoped this was a nightmare and he would awaken somewhere else.
The opening door sounded like a donkey’s rusty laugh, the creaking sending a sensation through his teeth. The face staring at him was dirty and insolent. It was that of a young man, no more than twenty. He noticed how the eyes didn’t look at him but perpetually darted to beyond as if searching for something down the stairs.
“Are you buying or selling?” the man asked furtively.
“Neither…I don’t think. I’ve come for a job interview,” Twist responded.
The cheeky face grinned, then smirked and burst out laughing. From somewhere in the room beyond the partly opened door a low-pitched voice called, “Who is it, Rapid?”
“Some guy for a job,” the face beamed and looked back at the hidden questioner. There was a shuffling of feet, and the door opened wide.
“Why, come in young sir, and excuse this know-nothing idiot who thinks he is an executive, but in truth is nothing but a lad learning the trade.”
Oliver stared, stood firmly in place and was then taken by the arm and hurried in with a flurry of gestures. The man - Oliver stopped and thought about that gender description - was elegantly thin, wore a long dress, had blond hair, pierced ears and nose studs, lovely eyelashes and - to spoil the illusion - a deep, whiskey gravel voice. When Twist stole his attention from this greeter, he took in the room. There were computer consoles everywhere, stationed on desks and with young men and women sitting in front of the flickering screens. Many were also talking into telephone headsets. It had the appearance of business, but without the clean, sterile background. The surroundings were dusty and hadn’t seen a (dust-dlete) clean cloth in months And the improvised decorations were…outrageous. Posters were displayed of models, mostly with little clothing on, both male and female, many of the poses provocative, shading to down right rude.
“I can see you are admiring our operation,” the…Oliver had decided he was a transvestite…man interrupted his thoughts.
“I came for a job,” Twist muttered, still in awe of what he saw.
“Excellent. Now first, my name is…well just call me Fagend. And this is…KallKwik, the call center with oomph.” This must have been an in-joke as there was ribald laughter around the room.
“Hush,” Fagend commanded. “Now come and meet our latest recruit.” Many of the operatives left their screens and formed in a group. Oliver wondered if he really wanted this job. The young man who had first appeared around the door, pushed in next to Fagend
“This is our senior operative. Meet Rapid Dialer, the quickest fingers and mouth in our friendly call center,” Fagend waved at the young man, who took a mock bow and got a round of applause.
“What are you selling?” Twist asked.
Fagend coughed and waved most of the staff back to work.
“That depends,” Fagend said through pursed lips.
“On what?” Twist asked innocently.
“If you’re from the licensing authorities or not,” Rapid Dialer put in and got a clip around the ear from Fagend. The transvestite took Oliver’s arm and led him to one side in a conspiratorial action.
“Look, young…?”
“Oliver. Oliver Twist.”
“Well, yes, we’ll have to do something about that as a telephone name. Where was I? Oh yes. The city council does license call centers, but you see we sort of don’t get conventional work…so have taken on, what shall we say, the more essential but neglected services.”
Oliver tried to say something, but Fagend held up his hand in a regal gesture.
“Do not cast a stone if you live in a greenhouse.”
“What does that mean, sir?” Twist asked, baffled by the words. Fagend smiled and ignored him. Taking Oliver’s hand and patting it, he led him through the many computers, turning and gliding like a ballroom dancer. Suddenly he stopped and clapped his hands for attention.
.“What is humanities greatest need?” Fagend announced.
.“Food,” someone shouted.
“Ah yes, and as the great bard Shakespeare said, if food be the thought of love…”
“And sex,” Rapid smirked.
“Exactly, young man,” Fagend said in an elevated voice. “We all need sex, ask for sex, demand sex, and seek sex. The nature of that sex is different for us all.” There was a laugh and a few crude calls.
“Hush children,” Fagend silenced them with a hand held upright. Then looking at Oliver he said, “Does that answer your question?”
“Not really, sir.”
“We are a call center offering sex,” Fagend said with triumph. “Sex in all its glorious forms. Welcome to KallKwik, Oliver. Go to your station and bring sex to the people. Let the world send us the huddled erotic, bring us their sex starved people, ask for the impossible and WE will deliver in the hour.”
He did a beautiful pirouette across the room and got a rousing cheer.
“Welcome to Fagend’s gang, Oliver Twist.”

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Chapter 4: How Oliver learns more about the seedy side of London and its hypocritical attitude to sex.

He wandered from consul to consul, listening, seeing, and discovering a world he’d never known. Fagend sat at the far end of the enormous room, monitoring all the action, occasionally skipping hurriedly across to someone who was getting the pitch wrong, taking over and then showing a mixture of sweetness and strictness in his admonition of the operative. He must have been in his early sixties, but moved lightly, with grace and a certain slyness. Twist got the impression he was a deep and clever man, unashamed of his transvestite garb and with pride in the business.
The elf-like figure Rapid Dialer came over to Oliver, carrying two glasses.
“Here, Oliver, a drink for you,” he grinned and handed Twist the tumbler. Oliver nodded his thanks, took a swig…and almost choked to death.
“Careful, my good friend,” Rapid said, as he slapped Twist on the back, “Best malt whiskey should be sipped, not thrown back like cheap beer.”
“Whiskey!” Oliver exclaimed. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.”
“Quite right,” Rapid tutted. “There’s me and my bad manners again. Should have offered you the white wine in the morning and saved the Malt till after lunch.” Rapid took Oliver’s arm and led him along the row of operatives.
“Let me be your guide, young sir,” he politely said, even though he was almost seven years Oliver’s junior.
“Observe the different methods. You, Oliver, must develop your own individual sales patter.” He pushed Twist gently along.
“Here we have a handsome fellow who blinds them with every up-to-date phrase in the book. He talks about sexual services in a way that makes them sound like the everyday currency of commerce. Let me introduce you to Cliché Speak.” The man turned and smiled warmly at Oliver. Before they could chat, Rapid nudged Oliver onto the next consul. The pixie looking Rapid gave an audible sigh and placed a hand on the shoulder of the young lady. She turned and gave him a wickedly sexy grin.
“This, Oliver, is Hot Breath, the apple and the orange of our operatives. Miss Hot Breath, it can be truthfully said, is the jewel in our crown, and the very diamond and ruby of many of our clients.” Rapid leaned forward and kissed the young blonde’s hair, and muttered passionately, “See you later, my honey. Save some of your favors for me.”
.Oliver stood and looked down at the couple, not being able to speak or take his eyes off the sight. Hot Breath wore a very low cut top, revealing breasts of ivory white color, and an upright form and shape that had an immediate effect on him. It was an instant erection.
The little scene of affection over, Rapid guided Oliver to the edge of the room.
“Well, young sir, do you think you’ll fit into our organization?”
“What exactly are we selling, Rapid?”
“Sex, my good friend.” It was the voice of Fagend. He’d come up behind them and put his arm around Oliver’s shoulder.
“We have many thousands of people on our list and my operatives are always telephoning new prospects and offering them the unique serves of KallKwik.”
“When you say sex, Mr. Fagend, what…”
“Please, Oliver, call me Fagend, we leave the niceties of Mister to the respectable world. But to answer your question. The sex we offer depends on the customers. They are King…or Queen…and we supply what they demand. Mind you, it’s up to us to sell them the specials and the treats. Persuade them to take more…if you catch my drift, young Oliver.”
“Excuse me for the word, Fagend, but isn’t that prostitution?” Twist asked with wide eyes and legless innocence, a product more of the Malt Whiskey than a naivety.
“It’s market forces, Oliver,” Rapid interrupted.
“Very true, young man,” Fagend patted Rapid on the head. “And it’s an eclectic service. Women for randy men, men for hungry women, and lots of goodies in between for those of us who are swinging like a sexually crazed pendulum clock.”
“And there’s the incentive scheme,” Rapid grinned.
“What’s that?” Oliver asked, more dazed every minute.
“That’s slightly unofficial,” Fagend said, “But some of our operatives like to add extras to their sales bonuses…so shall we say they offer their own services…the gorgeous Hot Breath has quite a large….” Fagend stopped and clipped Rapid around the ear…”I was going to say clientele, not what you had in your dirty mind, young man.”
Fagend looked Oliver straight in the eyes.
“Come and join us, Oliver. You’ll be proud to see the KallKwik motorbikes racing around the city, delivering the chosen goods to our clients. We have a motto. If the goods aren’t with you in thirty minutes, and still hot on arrival, the service is free. What do you say, Oliver?”
“Well, yes, Fagend.”
“Excellent. And we expect all our operatives to live here.”
“That’s fine, as I’ve been evicted,” Oliver smiled gratefully.
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Chapter 5: When our hero starts to understand the warmth of the shared bed and how speech can mean one thing but sound like another.

The day went quickly, Oliver remaining fascinated by the action at the offices of KallKwik. Fagend was the impresario, keeping a watch on his ‘gang’, praising here, cajoling there, always ready with advice. Twist noticed something else.
When he passed Fagend’s screen it was divided into two halves. One side showed the activity of the operatives, the other was a glorified ledger. Oliver’s time as a bank clerk gave him the experience to recognize the rows of figures. He could see Fagend’s mouth silently moving as he tallied the money rolling in. When he saw Oliver looking, Fagend quickly pressed ‘close’ and forced a smiled at the young man.
So the day went. They worked till the early hours of the morning, and even then some of the team stayed by their monitors and phone to serve the late sexual customers who decided not to let the night pass without satisfaction. The gang ate communally, drank copiously, and spent an hour riotously re-telling many tales of what clients asked for and how they were supplied.
Eventually, they slowly drifted away. Rapid took a bewildered Oliver and led him along a dark corridor and then up a flight of wooden stairs.
“Well, young sir, this is the dormitory. There’s a spare bunk in the far corner. Not the best position, I’ll grant you, but you have to be here a while to earn that.” Rapid pointed to the bottom bunk and then civilly shook Oliver’s hand.
Twist slid in the bunk, suddenly very tired. He undressed, pulled the shabby drape closed and let his head sink into the pillow. He barely heard the noises of other people calling and chatting, and eventually the last light was turned out.
In a daze of exhaustion, Oliver dreamed of his life – first the orphanage and then working in the bank, his lonely existence and now this turn of events. What’s your name? It was a figure in his dream that kept asking. He couldn’t remember - then he opened his eyes and that owner of the voice was inches from him. He sat up abruptly, and hit his head on the metal of the bunk.
“Who are you?” Oliver said, bleary eyed. The face was that of an attractive woman about his age. Her black hair was tied in a single pigtail, her hazel round eyes framed with tiny spectacles. She was altogether delicious.
“Sorry, to wake you up,” she said softly, “I get scared at night and just wanted to talk.” She shoved him over and got in the bunk. He couldn’t help notice she was wearing just her bra and a very skimpy G-string. He grinned dementedly and felt his cock go hard.
“Everyone calls me Lispy Lou,” she said, and he saw what a gorgeous mouth she had.
“Why?” He managed to concentrate and ask.
“Oh, I sort of get mixed up with two of my letters,” she giggled, pulling his cover back so she could tuck in next to him.
“Woy, what a wig dick!” she exclaimed.
He didn’t need to ask which two letters.
“It’s my wees,” she shrugged
.“Well, I’ll wait if you want to…” he stopped himself, realizing it was bees not wees.
“How sad,” he said sympathetically.
“I get wy,” Lispy Lou sighed and snuggled up even closer. “ It’s cold, can I come under the covers?” she asked, simultaneously pulling them back, staring at him and exclaiming, “I can see you’re pleased to see me!”
“What?” he said, then realizing what she meant grew red in the face and pulled the cover over them both.
Lispy Lou nuzzled against him, the hardness of his cock pressing against her upper thigh.
“Sorry, I didn’t think,” she shrugged and fluttered her big eyes at him. “I always sleep in my underwear…but, hey, it’s no problem not wearing any clothes.” Before he could stop her - as if he would - she undid and removed her bra and from under the cover produced her G-string, held it up and dropped it over the side of the bunk.
“Now woth of us have naked wodies,” she beamed, and kissed his cheek.
“And might I say, yours is weautiful…I mean beautiful,” he stammered. His compliment earned him another kiss on the cheek. Oliver decided on taking the initiative and caressed her face with his fingers and lightly kissed her lips. As she responded by nibbling his ear, he let his hand run down her neck, circle the swell of her breasts, and massage the fullness of her bosom.
She sighed deeply and whispered in his ear. “I don’t even know your name.”
”Oliver,” he said quietly and his head followed his hand down to kiss and suck her nipples.
With slight groans from them both, Lispy Lou said softly. “No further tonight, Oliver. If you want though, I’ll bring you satisfaction with….”
“Lispy Lou!” he cried out in ecstasy as she decided it was better to show him her talent.

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Chapter 6: A singular meeting is arranged and the red bearded O'Sykes makes his presence felt, while Nancy inflames passions and would like to get felt!

The first three days was a revelation to Oliver, learning the trade, serving the morning whisky, helping to arrange bookings for the services supplied by KallKwik. Fagend hadn’t given him his own consul and group of contacts, but Twist loved the atmosphere. He also enjoyed the nights when Lispy Lou came visiting his bunk. She hadn’t yet entirely surrendered, but was still giving him satisfaction with a combination of the smoothest hands he’d ever felt - or perhaps been felt by - and a tongue that had more dexterity than an iguana’s. He was hoping that, with the festive season only days away, she would give him a Christmas box he’d never forget.
Although he enjoyed his new friends and working at KallKwik, there were downsides. The office was cold. Fagend, normally cheerful and ebullient, became grumpy and churlish about turning up the heat too much in the office, and would lecture them on the cost of fuel.
On particular morning, Fagend was wearing a fetching two-piece charcoal gray suit and walked around the office in a beautiful fur coat. This made him even more insensitive to their pleas that it was minus ten degrees outside. As Oliver brought around the tray of hot, spiced Malt Whiskey, he lingered by Lispy Lou’s consul.
He stood taking comfort and being aroused by looking down the front of her blouse and having erotic thoughts about her breasts and how he would tonight warm his hands on her ample bosom and bury his face between their twin peaks. Just as he got to the dream where his cock slid over the rise of her icing cake nipples, the door of the office flew open. Everything went quiet. The operatives stopped talking on their phones and Fagend shot up from his seat and sashayed, humbly, across the wooden floor, his stiletto heels click-clacking like an Argentinean Fandango dancer
.Two people walked in. Walked was not an adequate description of this entrance. The first was a six-foot plus man, broad and swaying, his unruly red hair and beard giving him the appearance of a Celtic warrior. The effect was heightened as he was swathed in a dress evening cloak and carried a silver headed cane, the head of a British bulldog sitting proudly on the top. Oliver got the impression that at a moment’s provocation, the cane concealed a rapier, which would be used on anyone this hulk disliked. By the man’s side trotted an anorexic hound, lean to the bone and with a decidedly stupid look on its canine face.
The next figure took Oliver’s breath away. The lady was gorgeous, tall and elegant, with velvet ochre skin nurtured in some Caribbean island, dark and liquid eyes that searched the room and made every man her instant slave. Her body moved to the distant, silent tune of a Samba, the short mini-skirt showing legs and thighs, and causing mass passion in the loins of every male in the room. If the face launched a thousand ships, the breasts, hips and ass instigated a synchronized erection.
“Who’s this?” Oliver whispered with reverence to Rapid Dialer, sensing the combination of awe and fear in the room. Rapid spoke out the corner of his mouth in subdued tones.
“That’s Bill O'Sykes, the crazy Irishman and his bitch, Target.”
“Target? Funny name for a woman,” Twist muttered.
Rapid threw him a stinging look. “That’s the dog, stupid. The woman is Half-Mast Nancy.”
.“An even odder name,” Oliver gulped, captivated by her.
“She’s Bill tart. It’s said she’s the best fuck you’d ever have. Called Half-Mast because she’s on the game so much her panties are up and down like a flag on a pole.”
Bill and Nancy approached Fagend.
“My dear Bill…and the beautiful Nancy, to what do we owe the honor of this visit?” Fagend dusted two chairs with a silk handkerchief drawn artistically from his pocket, like a conjuror about to produce two white doves.
“Money, Fagend, you know that stuff you are so reluctant to part with?”
“How can you say that, Bill? Look around you and image the overheads I have.”
“Sure don’t include heating,” Nancy shivered. At least five male operatives jumped forward to offer the femme fatale their coats. She smiled and gave them a shimmy of her delectable body.
Bill O'Sykes grunted some oath and faced Fagend.
“Look here, you old Drama Queen, I’ve delivered a batch of porn movies for you…and now I want my money. And Nancy performed for that politician the other day…that was worth a fortune, seeing as she only did a trick so he would keep this organization out of the clutches of the authorities. It’s a well known fact, Fagend, you don’t pay tax on this business and you should have been closed down years ago.” O'Sykes rubbed his large fingers through his red beard and looked meanly at Fagend.
“Monday, Bill, and that’s a promise,” Fagend said in an airy fashion.
“Tomorrow, Fagend. I want the money tomorrow. It’ll be Christmas in three days and I want to have a party…and buy Nancy a real, fur edged G-string.” As Bill spoke he fingered the fur coat Fagend was wearing. “Seems there’s money for some luxuries, Fagend,” he said sarcastically.
“Bring wine for Bill and Nancy,” Fagend shouted to Rapid, diverting the conversation away from the unpleasant subject of money.
Bill walked toward the table by the one high window. He stopped and stared at Oliver.
“Who’s this whey-faced gentleman?”
“This, Bill, is a new recruit, young Oliver Twist by name,” Rapid said as he came over with the wine. “And he is going to be a veritable asset to KallKwik, with his pale, unblemished countenance and polished manners,” Fagend added, ingratiating himself with Bill.
“Looks like a real cutie,” Nancy cooed, and touched Oliver’s hair lightly.
“Done anything like this before…”
“Oliver Twist, Bill,” Fagend supplied the name again
.“Oliver.” Bill said it with a mouthful of scorn. “Oliver,” he repeated, “Sounds like something you eat at one of those fancy cocktail parties.”
Twist stood silent. Now as Bill waved him close, he found his tongue to answer.
“I was in banking, sir.”
“Seems like a useful experience. Bankers screw their customers, at KallKwik we get screwed.”
“He’s going to be very positive to our underlining business objectives,” Cliché Speak offered, and got the rough end of Bill’s hand around his head.
“Clever buggers, your lads, Fagend. Well, this young Oliver could come in handy. I’ve got a little task for him.”
“Careful, Bill, he’s very inexperienced,” Fagend said in a weasel way.
“Come here, Oliver,” Bill instructed, ignoring Fagend “Now see my Nancy. She has to go and do a turn for a high-class gentleman in Knightsbridge, here in London. And a very posh district it is. You could be just the lad to deliver her on your motorbike. Bit of class never came amiss.”
“I’ll send Rapid as well, Bill, to keep an eye on them,” Fagend grinned defensively.
Rapid stepped forward and gave Bill a bow, hoping that Nancy might show her favors to him and Oliver on the way to the job. Elf-like Rapid was secretly in love with the voluptuous Nancy and often dreamed of exploring her satin black body.
In the far corner, sitting by her consul, Lispy Lou sulked, jealousy clouding her mind. She hoped Nancy wouldn’t offer her Oliver a wonk on the way to Knightsbridge.

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Chapter 7: How the respectable folk of Knightsbridge go about their business and are completely obsessed with sex

It was such an exclusive district that the garbage collection men wore suits when collecting the rubbish. Cornelius Vandenplus looked up at the exquisitely decorated Adam style ceiling and then over to the row of paintings on the wall. He had a Turner, a Constable and a two-way mirror. That was to watch the housekeeper, Mrs. Marilyne Cheek, as she undressed for bed. At this moment he didn’t need to spy on her, because the buxom lady was sitting on top of him, cock deep, stark naked and breasts jogging up and down as she panted and puffed in their sexual coupling.
.Naturally, to the outside world, number twelve, Prince Albert Drive, Knightsbridge, was a prim and proper, respectable establishment. No one would ever suspect the master, Mr. Vandenplus was constantly bonking the housekeeper and inventing weird and wonderful sexually orientated games to play.
He was a sixty-two year old owner of an established investment company whose family could trace their line as far back as Henry the Eighth. In fact, they were related to Queen Anne Boleyn and still had the original block where her pretty head departed this world - as had the rest of her body.
He’d been a widower for many years, childless and now a lover of the housekeeper, Mrs. Cheek. He’d long admired her apple dumplings and one (down-delete) day he couldn’t resist, like Jack Horner in the corner, putting his finger in. When he did, Mrs. Cheek squealed with delight, and it started from there.
There was one great sadness in his life. His beloved sister had been a sweet child, but when she turned eighteen went off the rails. More like jumped over and swung from the banisters, would be correct. Not to put too fine a point on it, she got herself up the duff, as they said in those parts, and carried her illegitimate child, until a few weeks before it was due. Then she ran away. That was the last Cornelius Vandenplus heard from his sister or the baby. That was twenty-six years ago. He still wondered where they were.
“Ooooh, Cornelius,” Marilyne groaned and gave him a few final frantic jumps before rolling off and cuddling close in the big double bed. As he felt her warm skin next to him, Cornelius stared at another picture. This one was of a pale skinned and pretty young woman, his sister, Olivia Vandenplus. Where was she? Where was his niece or was it nephew?
As they lay in post coitus exhaustion and Cornelius wondered if he should take another Beta-Blocker to stop his heart thumping, there was a noise outside in the avenue. Quickly dressing, Cornelius went down the stairs from the master bedroom, to be met by the butler, Finglestein, who nodded at his appearance, but said nothing. Like the rest of the household, Finglestein knew all about the sexual liaison between the master and Mrs. Cheek, but discretion, and his job, made him keep quiet.
“What’s going on out there?” Vandenplus asked the Butler.
“It would appear two motorbikes are roaring up and down the avenue, sir,” the old retainer answered. He would have liked to say, I’m surprised you heard anything you old ram, what with Mrs. Cheek making so much noise in the throes of sexual gratification, but he stayed mute. More than prudence, but also that the assistant cook, young Sally-Anne Strumpet, was giving the butler the benefit of her body every Wednesday afternoon in return for payment he was stealing from the wine cellar budget. Every time he gave Sally-Anne a mid-week fuck and paid her handsomely, he had to make up the difference in the money from that amount. So it was out with the Chateau Lafitte and on with a cheap Balkan wine.
Cornelius went to the window and looked out. There were the motorbikes.
Out in the avenue, Rapid sped up one way and Oliver the other. On the back of Twist’s motorcycle sat the mind-bogglingly, cock hardening, erotic figure of Half-Mast Nancy. As she sat arrogantly and provocatively on the pillion seat, her mini-skirt rode up so high it gave the casual observer a very full view of her skimpy G-string, gorgeous black thighs and ass cheeks. Finglestein was hardly a casual on-looker. He’d gone into the parlor of number twelve, got down a pair of binoculars and was at this moment sweating profusely at what he could see of Nancy.
The two bikes came to a rubber screeching halt.
“Is this number twelve Prince Albert Avenue?” Rapid called out from under his oversized helmet.
“Cornelius Vandenplus opened the window and called, “Yes,” in a surprised manner.
“We’ve got your order, sir,” Rapid grinned insolently.
“Order? Young man, what are you talking about?” Vandenplus asked inquisitively.
Rapid signaled to Oliver to turn off his motorbike engine and help Nancy off the back. The black goddess stepped down from the back of the bike and gave the butler an even better view.
“One tart with a heart, guv’nor,” Rapid proudly announced
“What, what…”Cornelius stuttered.
“A number sixty-nine followed by a number eight,” Rapid called to the old gentleman. Still there was total incomprehension.
“Oral sex, sir, then on her back with legs wrapped around you, guv’nor while you shaft her rigid.” The butler heard that and collapsed. So did most of the avenue, hearing Rapid call out. Two doors down an elderly ex-politician was so scandalized he telephoned the vice-quad.
Five minutes later two police cars sped around the corner, sirens sounding. Nancy had the sense of preservation to jump on the back of Rapid’s motorbike as he sped off. Oliver Twist was left standing in the avenue.
“Is this the young man, sir?” one of the officers called to Vandenplus.
“Well, yes, but he wasn’t…”
“Don’t you worry sir, we’ve got him now. He’ll be taken to the station, charged and then in the morning appear before the local magistrate.”
“What are you arresting me for?” Oliver mildly protested.
The office took out his cuffs and secured Oliver’s wrists behind his back “I’m arrested you, young man, for the crime of carrying young women on a two wheeled vehicle for the purpose of sexual gratification.”
“Is that an offense, officer?” Vandenplus asked.
The policeman sucked through his teeth. “Certainly is, sir. And a very heinous crime. If this miscreant is found guilty…which I’ve no doubt he will with your evidence…it’s twenty year in a chain gang.”
©©©

Chapter 8: Where justice is seen to be both blind and drunk

Mr. Gogancratz was sweating liberally, marking his white collar. Every few seconds he took off his barristers wig and moped his baldpate. Oliver knew nothing of the workings of the law and had been assigned this lawyer to act for him. The little man in the grubby gown sniffed and stared through his thick lenses. Oliver wondered what the world looked like to this myopic man, with his strange twitch of the fingers and even more outlandish way of talking.
“So is it true or perhaps maybe it is not true. The fundamental question is of interest, but to the (mages testy-delete) majesty of the court is of no importance. The law is blind, Mr. Twist, blind but not deaf.” Gogancratz sniffed again. He nose was large for such a tiny man. He was all nose and ridiculous words.
“What shall I do, Mr. Gogancratz?” Oliver asked, despairing of a sensible answer.
“Trust in the Lord and eat plenty of oatmeal, Mr. Twist.”
Oliver didn’t understand, but the drapes were drawn over this episode as the clerk of the court came into the large room and called, “Next case Oliver Twerp.”
“Twist,” Oliver muttered, not thinking it made one iota of difference.
The courtroom was almost empty. Only two days before Christmas and most of the staff and those that normally attended would be out preparing for the festive season. A uniform police office led Oliver into the raised accused box. His barrister, Mr. Gogancratz shambled over to stand next to the lofty prosecuting council, a Mr. Ovarhulled.
Nothing much seemed to happen for ten minutes, everyone standing around talking. Then the clerk called out, “All rise for Justice Heir!”
The few people in the public gallery stood up, waiting for the grandness of the law to enter. The judge waddled in, scowl on his red face, bundle of papers under his arm and a distracted air.
The clerk and lawyers bowed. “The Crown versus Oliver Twerp,” the clerk solemnly announced.
“Where is Twerp?” the judge asked.
Oliver stood up, “Twist, sir, Twist.”
The judge regarded him with alarm.
“Is this some type of new dance? Please ask the accused to restrain from outbursts,” he commanded the clerk.
“It’s his name, sir” Gogancratz tried to intervene.
“That is no excuse,” the judge poured scorn on the comment.
“I object, sir,” Gogancratz sniveled.
“Over ruled,” Heir said firmly.
“Yes, sir?” Mr. Ovarhulled said, standing up to his full considerable height.
“What?” the judge mumbled.
“You called me?” the tall barrister said.
“No I didn’t, I was talking about this Twerp case…I mean Twist.”
“Here, sir,” Oliver piped up, trying to be polite.
“Call me your honor, not Heir.” The judge sounded indignant.
The clerk of the court felt disinclined to intervene in the farce. He sat, arms folded, listening to the confusion go on for another ten minutes.
When they’d exhausted themselves, Judge Heir asked if there were any witnesses to the crime.
Ovearhulled turned and signaled for Mr.Vandenplus to be called. The elderly gentleman went into the witness box, took the oath and waited for the questions, looking over at Oliver and feeling he recognized the young man’s face.
“Do you see the person in court who brought sexual abandonment to the quiet streets of London, Mr. Vandenplus?” the lawyer asked in an imperious voice.
Judge Heir coughed and for one ghastly moment thought they were talking about him, remembering his naked romp with two young, handsome men the night before. Then he relaxed as he recalled that particular predilection had been behind the respectable closed doors and high walls of his mansion.
“Well,” Mr. Vandenplus began hesitatingly, I did see this young man,” pointing at Oliver, “But I am not convinced he was not the leader of this…”
“Crime,” is that the word you are looking for, sir?” Judge Heir sneeringly said.
“I do not believe this man is the one we should be punishing,” Vandenplus argued.
The Judge looked exasperated, and from under his high desk flicked over the next page of Posing Hunks Monthly, salivating at the picture of a muscular young man wearing little more than a fixed grin. He then looked over at Vandenplus.
“Please stand down, sir, you are wasting the court’s time. You are here to convict perverts like this Twist fellow, not give us the benefit of your wishy-washy ideals.”
From the body of the few people in the public galley, a voice called out, “I have something to say.”
“Bring that individual forward,” Judge Heir said testily. One of the court Ushers led a young woman down the stairs from the gallery and into the witness box. To Oliver’s amazement it was Lispy Lou.
“As you have had the temerity to interrupt these proceedings, young lady, tell us what you know of this case,” the Judge grumpily instructed
Lispy Lou gave Oliver a sly grin, and then confidently faced the court, the judge keeping a wary eye on her.
“Your honor and most worshipful judge, this man Oliver Twist stands wefore you an innocent man. He is not a sexual predator, in fact he is a shy and honest person who has never wefore ween on a wike.”
Judge Heir scratched his head and wondered what she was talking about. Lispy Lou grinned at him and continued.
“No my honorable Judge, I stand in this witness wox and place my hand on the good wook to swear he is a lovely man. In fact prior to this incident he was engaged in a true and trusted profession.”
“Please get to the point - whatever it is,” the judge insisted.
“Most certainly you honor. Oliver Twist, you will note for your records was employed by a respected organization…”
“The point, miss, what as,” Judge Heir grew impatient
.“A wanker, your honor. A humble one, true, but nevertheless, he was and at heart still is, a wanker.” She beamed at the Judge, tuned and smiled affectionately at Oliver. The court was in uproar.
Judge Heir grew tired of these shenanigans, and also wanted to get back to his Chambers and read the next story in his magazine. He grew tired of the chance of issuing a long and hard punishment to this Twist man, and would rather be dishing out chastisement to a young fellow he met in the pub two days ago.
“Case dismissed!” Judge Heir shouted above the turmoil, and banged his gavel resolutely.
As he exited the court, two burly police officers escorted Oliver out, throwing him onto the street. Lipsy Lou wanted to go and hug her man, but the presence of lawyers and old Mr. Vandenplus made her nervous.
“I am sorry for the distress you were caused,” Cornelius spoke kindly to Oliver and helped to brush away the dirt from his clothes as Twist picked himself up.
“The least I can do is invite you home and offer a meal and perhaps a bed for the night,” the old gentleman said. “This is the time for joyous celebration at Christmas time.”
In a doorway opposite, Rapid watched the little scene and wondered if Oliver had caught the eye of the nice old boy. Rapid hadn’t been to KallKwik for two days and he didn’t relish the thought of explaining to Fagend that Oliver had been in the arms of the law, and was now possibly shacked up with an old gentleman. And as for what Bill O'Sykes would say, he daren’t think. He, for sure, wasn’t going to hand out any festive gifts when Rapid told him the law had been talking to Oliver.

©©©

Chapter 9: How money plays a part in another misunderstanding and young Twist gets the wrong end again.

Oliver had never seen such a big one! He gulped and wondered what the old gentleman was going to do with it.
He watched in amazement as Mr. Vandenplus carved the chicken. It was still two days till Christmas yet here in the grand house they were having a succulent bird for dinner.
“More stuffing?” Cornelius winked at Mrs. Cheek.
“Oh, sir, you are too good to me,” she said and her rose apple face flushed, looking between Mr. Vandenplus and the young man. She saw his attention to the chicken and said, “You wait till Christmas day young Master Twist, and then you’ll be astonished what Mr. Vandenplus does with plump poultry.
As they settled down to eat, Mr. Vandenplus grew more and more convinced he saw something in Oliver’s face that was familiar.
“Tell me, Oliver, what do you know of your birth?” he asked as he solicitously studied the young man, while putting one hand under the table and tickling his Marilyne on the knee.
At that moment Oliver was indulging in his own tender chicken, with a mouthful of the beautiful bird.
“My first recollection is when I was five,” he managed through more chicken and a forkful of roast potatoes. “I was busy in the orphanage working, as you do, twelve hours a day, cleaning the matron’s rooms and every Thursday in the winter being pushed up the chimney to sweep it. In fact (he-delete) I was very much treated as any child would have been in a normal dysfunctional family. I had very little possessions, except a tin box which I was led to believe my true mother had left for me.”
“Do you recall what is in the box, Oliver?” Cornelius asked.
“The box has long gone, sir, but as far as I remember it contained various letters and an odd shaped silver object engraved with OV.”
Cornelius stopped fondling Mrs. Cheek.
“Was this object shaped, shall we say, like a…phallic symbol?”
Oliver pondered. For many years he had though the word was ‘fallic’ and meant invisible. It was only his recent few days at KallKwik that had disabused him of this notion.
“I think it truly could thus be described, sir,” he answered.
Cornelius got up and walked agitatedly around the room, sipping a glass of port and muttering to himself.
“Oliver, I want you to run an errand for me. Take this five-pound note and go to the pharmacy on the corner. Tell the proprietor it is for the special for Mr. Vandenplus. He will know what to give you. Now go quickly, young man.”
Oliver took the money, left the house and hurried along the road. Cornelius watched him go from the dinning room window.
“Cornelius, you look worried. Tell me what concerns you?” Mrs. Cheek asked, straightening her panties where Cornelius had been interfering with her under the table.
“That engraving of OV is the same initials of my darling sister, Olivia Vandenplus. For her eighteen birthday a secret admirer gave her a gift. It was a sliver dildo. Do you know what this means, Marilyne?
“She was in love with a pervert?”
“No, no. That goes without saying. Is it possible that this boy, Oliver, is her long lost son, my nephew and the child we all desire to see again.”
“Oh, Cornelius, that would be wonderful.”
As Cornelius and Marilyne held each other tight, Oliver whistled through the flurrying snow, admiring the Christmas decoration in the posh Knightsbridge stores and rejoicing in all the merry faces around him.
He found the pharmacy, J. Bates & Sons, went in and waited his turn at the counter. A young man smiled and said, “Can I help you?”
“May I speak to the proprietor?”
“I’m afraid my father is out today. May I help you? I’m Master Bates.”
“Pardon?” Oliver wondered if he’d heard him right. The man smiled again and thought perhaps the customer was a little deaf
.“Master Bates, Master Bates. Can you hear me?”
Most of the shop could hear him. Oliver looked embarrassed, and two young women at the end of the counter left in a giggling fit.
“I’ve been asked collect the special for Mr. Cornelius Vandenplus,” Oliver said, trying to appear indifferent to this young’s man peculiar manner.
Young Master Bates’ eyes shone. “Yes, of course. Will it be the ribbed or straight for this evening?”
“I’m sorry?” Oliver queried.
The proprietor’s son faced Oliver and decided to make the message very clear, trying to help this deaf and half-witted man.
“Watch my lips, sir,” he said in a very loud voice, attracting all the customers and staff. “Me Master Bates. You want condoms. Ribbed or straight for tonight?”
Oliver was aware of the curiosity he and this strange son of the proprietor were causing, so he muttered in low tone, “Ribbed,” took the packet handed to him and fled the pharmacy. Crossing the road to look in the window of Harrods’s Store and seeing the row of toy reindeers, he spotted a familiar face.
“Why my dear Oliver. Isn’t this just the finest coincidence you could image,” the impish young man greeted him.
“Rapid, what are you doing here? How good to see you.”
“And you, Oliver. We’ve all missed you.”
“Perhaps after Christmas I’ll come over and visit you, Rapid,” Oliver suggested.
A large hand grabbed Oliver’s collar. On the end of that enormous fist was a broad chest, and just above a head of red hair and beard.
“I rather think we’d like to see you now, Twist…and find out what you have been telling the law about us.” Bill O’Sykes grabbed Oliver and lifted him up, throwing him bodily into the back of his truck. Rapid tried to get in as well, but Bill pushed him aside.
“You can walk back to KallKwik, Rapid, seeing as how you lost us this young man in the first place.”
The truck trundled off through the streets of London, Bill O’Sykes sitting at the wheel, one hand steering and the other playing menacingly with a sharp and long blade. Oliver didn’t like the look in his eye.

©©©

Chapter 10: Where Oliver is returned into danger and the beautiful Nancy shows them a dance and more of her body than is good for young impressionable men.

The door flew open. Everyone stopped working. Fagend got up, quickly turned off his computer with its displayed balanced sheet, and immediately saw the dark brooding face of Bill O’Sykes. The muscular brute pushed Oliver into the room, slammed the door, and glared at the operatives. They all ducked down and back to their work. Nancy sat in the corner sipping her pink gin. She knew Bill and his moods better than anyone, and decided to say nothing at the moment.
“Here’s your run away young man, Fagend. He’s been hobnobbing with the posh folk and I dare say talking to the law about us.”
Fagend glided over to Bill, grabbed Oliver and smoothed the young man’s hair.
.“Now then, my pretty boy, tell us what you said to the police?”
“Nothing, sir…nothing.”
“There, Bill, he’s a good lad. You can see it in his lovely eyes.” Fagend smiled defensively and pulled Oliver away, out of distance of Bill’s fists. O'Sykes slouched across the room, snatched the gin bottle from Nancy and took a huge gulp.
“Trouble with you, Fagend, is you’re too fond of young men. You’ve a tendency to confuse your desires with trust,” O'Sykes sneered and took another swig.
Just then the door opened and Rapid Dialer came puffing in.
“And where have you been, my little friend?” Fagend said and gave the impish man a mock clip around the ear.
“Sorry, Fagend, but the law just arrived. I didn’t have time to react properly. Still not to worry, the charge against Oliver didn’t stick.”
“Charge, what charge?” O'Sykes thundered. Rapid moved behind Fagend for protection.
“Oliver got arrested and put up before the magistrates,” Rapid said in a rush. The word magistrate made Fagend shiver.
“See, Bill, the young man wasn’t talking to the law. In fact he’s one of us. Has a record now,” Fagend said.
“Yes, it’s true,” Rapid now became more confident. “Nancy was there. It’s true ain’t it Nancy?”
O'Sykes turned and pushed his face into that of the black and serene countenance of Nancy.
“You didn’t tell me this, Nancy,” he glowered.
She shrugged and her gorgeous body movement sent the young men into daydreams. “You never asked, Bill…and you never listen even when I try to talk to you,” Nancy returned his strong eye contact.
O'Sykes went over to one of the operatives who was chewing his sandwich, took it off him and threw the cheese and bread to his dog.
“Here, Target. You’re the only one out of this bunch who I can rely on.” The atmosphere in the room was tense. The gloomy presence of O'Sykes filled the room. Which way would he go?
“Hey, anyone seen my act at the Triple-Thrill Club?” Nancy bounced in to break the silence. Rapid drooled at the thought, lusting after Nancy, but keeping the dark desires from Bill. He didn’t fancy his kneecaps being busted by an iron bar.
“Tell us about it, Nancy,” he beamed. They all knew she was performing tricks and Bill was her pimp, living on the earnings the men threw at the beautiful woman. But this dance activity was new to them. The operatives gathered around, every eye on the siren and every cock secretly jumping for joy.
“Who’s got a radio?” she asked. Cliché Speak nodded a yes. “Come over ’ere and find me some sexy rap music,” she told him. He tuned the radio, got the beat she wanted and then Nancy waited for the tune to get in a swing.
She wore blue jeans, stiletto heels, and a top that plunged deep at the neckline and was cut short to reveal her belly button and dazzling stomach. All around the room were vertical wooden beams, probably once loft supports. Nancy curled her slender slithering body around one of them, forming a mouth-watering S-shape, her breasts magnificently prominent and her provocative rear displaying its finer attractions.
The music pumped out and Nancy gyrated in places the enraptured audience didn’t know existed. She moved like liquid and flowing sexual glory, her body tantalizing, exhibiting and seducing. Rapid stood, mouth open in ecstasy and over-heating with every twirl and turn of Nancy’s torso. Oliver was transfixed; this was a sexual twist beyond his experience.
She took hold of her top and slid it over her head in one sinuous movement, pouting her lips and shimmying her breasts, lightly encased as they were in a minimal white lace bra. With the temperature rising, Nancy slipped out of her jeans, thrust her hips like a Belly dancer, then turned and revealed the scant covering of her ass, just the single thin cord of a very token G-string.
The room erupted into whistles, hot breathing and stiff dicks. Rapid felt his pulse racing, his heart beating fast and his knees going weak. Just a few minutes more and his dreams would begin to come true - a naked Nancy cavorting in front of him.
A large fist slammed down on the radio. Everything went silent.
“If you overpaid and oversexed lot want a show it will cost you. She don’t entertain for poor scum like you.” O'Sykes pushed the broken radio onto the floor and, picking up Nancy’s clothes, threw them at her.
“Get dressed, you tart. Just because it’s Christmas it doesn’t mean these losers get a free handout. It fact they don’t get their hands on anything.”
O'Sykes growled and scowled, grabbed Nancy, dragging her behind him, and left the offices of KallKwik with a decidedly loud banging of the door.
“Get back to work,” Fagend said, clapping his hands and sending the operatives scurrying in all directions.

©©©

Chapter 11: Where the old transvestite talks to Rapid and reveals he has a heart and a past.

The last shift had finished. It had been a good night, Christmas bringing out the pent up sexual frustration in society. KallKwik had been busy, delivering young women and hunky men across town. It had been so hectic, many of the operatives had been able to indulge in a little bit of freelance work, offering there own brand of sexual orientation to customers. Being wrapped in tinsel was an extra bonus.
It was not Rapid Dialer’s way. He worked quickly, knew all the dodges and made a good percentage on the services. Everyone had closed down his or her monitors and Rapid sat finishing a bottle of wine on his desk. The only other person in the room was Fagend, who stared at the screen, counting, dividing and sorting the money.
“Want a glass of wine, sir?” Rapid called to Fagend. The old dandy smiled a thank you, shut the program and walked to the door, which led onto an improvised balcony. Once, when this dismal part of London had been prosperous, the building had been a grain warehouse, and hoists brought the bags of food from the passing barges on to the upper floor for storage. Rapid came over and handed Fagend a glass.
The snow was still in the air and the frost added to the whiteness over the roofs.
“How long have you been doing this, sir?” Rapid asked, as the elderly man polished his rimless spectacles.
“Bless you, Rapid. I was forced into this business. I used to run a legitimate company.”
“What was that?”
“Arms procurement.”
Rapid stifled a snigger. “So you sold guns and bombs, but that was legitimate. Now you sell sex to bring pleasure…and that’s banned.”
Fagend shrugged “Make a big killer with a bang and you get government contracts; encourage the people to have a bang in bed, and the law enforcement agencies hound you, Rapid.”
The young man looked out over the skyline and saw a million lights twinkling, and in the near distance a huge Christmas tree was standing in Trafalgar Square, glowing with the illuminations for the festive season.
“You look very pensive, sir,” Rapid said, seeing Fagend looking wistfully down toward the slow moving and muddy River Thames.
“Just wondering what I’m going to do in a few years time, my boy. I’m almost sixty-five now. This game isn’t too much longer for me.”
“Couldn’t you retire, sir? I reckon you’ve got a tidy bit stashed away.”
Fagend’s head shot around and he glared at Rapid. “What do you know about my money, Rapid?”
“Nothing, sir, I was just supposing.”
Fagend’s face softened. “Anyway, where would I retire? Can’t see me settling down in some leafy English lane, chatting to the good folk. Telling them I made my money in sex.” The old man chuckled.
Rapid picked up a bit of loose slate that had slipped from the roof and skimmed it over the building, waiting for it to hit the river.
“Isn’t there anybody to…” Rapid paused. Fagend pulled his coat up around his neck to keep the cold out.
“Anybody for an old, disreputable Queen like me. Is that what you were going to say, boy?”
Rapid shrugged, embarrassed.
“Don’t worry, Rapid, I’m not offended. There was once a man I loved. It’s a strange thing this sex and love. When you’re young, like you, seeing old people you never think of them and sex. Well, Rapid, it don’t go away. I sometimes ask myself why the good Lord gave us all this sex drive and mental capacity to think about it so much, when he only gave us one cock and one clitoris to go at it.” Fagend stole a glance at Rapid, and smiled. “Yes, I know what’s going through your mind. Us gays don’t even have a clitoris to shag. Mind you, there’s a lot of gorgeous ass about.” Rapid gulped and Fagend roared with laughter.
“Don’t worry, yours is cute, but not for me, Rapid.”
“So, what will you do, sir?”
“I might write a book, Rapid,” he said. The young man looked surprised.
“What about?”
“Don’t think I’d be short of material,” Fagend chuckled. “A dandy transvestite who has had a colorful life and is now running a sex service…think I’ve got enough material, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” Rapid shrugged. “Who would publish such an audacious novel, sir?”
Fagend flickered his fingers over his immaculate two-piece dress suit, and wriggled to straighten the silk G-string he was wearing. “These computers are wonderful things, Rapid. When you and the other boys and girls are working, I surf the net and I’ve found this superb ebook site at Venus Press. If any one will publish my life, they will. And their artists for the cover of the books… Such ass on some of those girls. I‘m sure they could do me a nice young man with an attractive rear.” Fagend laughed at his own humor.
They watched the pigeons swoop over the derelict building, but were locked in their private thoughts, Rapid of a life he hoped he’d have, Fagend of the past, which to the old is so near, yet so unobtainable any more. Just along the side of the building, the lights in the communal bedroom started to go out as the operatives tucked down in the early hours of the morning. If the snow clouds hadn’t been there, the sun would be making its very early appearance.
It was five o’clock in the morning and the city was about to awaken for the ordinary folk. KallKwik had served the capital and it was now about to have its sleep.
Another Christmas in this ancient capital was almost here. Fagend wondered where all those glad tidings were going to get humanity.

©©©

Chapter 12: The night Oliver gets his present, unwrapped and still very hot.

The pretty face with her spectacles appeared between the drapes.
“Welcome wack, Oliver,” Lispy Lou grinned, waited for a few moments, and as he didn’t take the hint, crawled into his bunk with him.
“I thought you’d be undressed by now,” she said, her face a picture of innocence. “I missed you, Oliver. I especially missed your lovely wody. Can I cuddle up to you?” He nodded.
“Did you meet any weautiful ladies, Oliver?” she asked coyly, running the tip of her index finger down his cheek.
“I was only gone a few days…and one of them was spent in a prison cell,” he protested.
“You might be a fast worker, Oliver…which is more than can be said awout you getting undressed. Here, let me help you.”
“What about you, aren’t you getting undressed?”
Lispy Lou pulled the dress over her head to reveal she was as naked as the day she was born. He stared and she undid his pants, slipped them off and removed his shorts.
“See you’ve got a stiff wanana, Oliver,“ she giggled. He looked puzzled, then got her drift, and colored up. She shuffled up in the bunk. He liked the horizontal movement and put his arms around her.
“Are you going to stay, Oliver?”
He didn’t answer. She looked concerned. “Okay, if you go, will you take me with you?”
“How would I look after you?” he asked sadly. She leaned up on her elbows and looked at him intently. “What century do you think this is, Oliver? You sound like some Dickensian character. I don’t have to