The Queen of Whiskeytown
They came through the razorwire at the top of the stone wall and dropped down into the soft bed of Madame Krusher’s prized red roses. Crouching low, their black-clad bodies blending into the darkness, they listened for the sounds of an alarm — nothing.
Riley, their man inside the house of domination, had done his job. The two men crept along the outside wall, nearing the back entrance to the house. Disposing of three separate female guards with chloroform on a rag, they violated the boundaries of the house of pain and made their way down the hall, through Madame Krusher’s parlor. Men hung from the walls in cages, bound and gagged, human gargoyles with delirious ecstasy in their eyes. The Madame’s compliant victims.
Rocko shuddered, eyeing the tightly-trussed cock and balls of one of the men.
“Makes a guy think,” he muttered disgustedly under his breath.
“Shut the fuck up,” hissed Vinnie, waving Rocko toward the spiral staircase.
Both men had studied the floor plan of the house — bought from the architect for a half a case of bootleg — until they knew it by heart. The two men made their way to the third floor, eyes ever-watchful for the Madame’s dreaded personal bodyguards, known on the street and in Madame Krusher’s house as the KrushGirls. Their name was muttered in criminal circles from Mulberry Street to Cicero, the docks to the projects. Guys named “Killer” with rap sheets a mile long felt their balls shrivel up into their bodies when the legends of the KrushGirls were traded in hoarse, drunken whispers across card tables and whiskey-slick bars everywhere.
The men crept in the narrow blind spot of the third-floor camera, made their way to the Madame’s chambers, stood outside the door with their .45 Thompsons at the ready.
“On three,” said Vinnie. “One… two…”
“Three,” he said, and Rocko kicked the door at the lock, forcing the door in one easy motion. The Thompsons belched violently and bullets riddled the bed.
Broken glass, shattered wood, liberated feathers filled the room.
Vinnie backed off, waving Rocko inside.
Rocko crept cautiously to the Madame’s bed, reached out, reached out and pulled off what remained of the down comforter.
“Fuck,” spat Vinnie, maybe half a second before the trap door opened under Rocko’s feet.
Rocko’s Thompson chattered blindly, riddling the ceiling, as he dropped through the opening. He clawed at the edges of the trap door but couldn’t get a grip; his Thompson gave a hollow click just as he lost his hold and went plunging down into blackness. His scream faded as he fell.
In that same moment, Vinnie’s legs were whipped out from under him by a complicated spring device resembling a lasso — he was dragged upside down by his feet, whipped into the center of the ravaged bedroom and left hanging there, wildly firing the Thompson until, as if from nowhere, a bullwhip struck from the darkness and whipped the machine gun out of his hand.
“Nice boys share their toys,” the harsh voice echoed around him as six women, all clad in head-to-toe leather and high-heeled boots, appeared around Vinnie’s hanging form. They leapt for Vinnie without a moment’s preliminaries.
Vinnie screamed as they grabbed his wrists and lashed them behind his back, leaving him swinging back and forth by his feet, helpless to stop his nauseating motion.
“Help! Let me go, you pervert bitches!”
The evil cackling filled the room. The six bodyguards stood in a circle around the unfortunate Vinnie, whips and knives at the ready. The circle of women began to push Vinnie back and forth between them as if he were a child playing on a tire swing; every once in a while one particularly nasty bitch would give him a little twirl so that he swung around uncontrollably. This would bring a shriek from his lips; Vinnie was easily nauseated.
Then the circle of evil women parted, and Vinnie looked up to see a terrifying image.
There was Madame Krusher, her bullwhip neatly coiled at her belt. She casually held Vinnie’s Thompson submachine gun in her hands.
Madame Krusher was stunning — she was nearly six foot two in her bare fishnets, but she was almost never seen without her famous six-inch heels. But the heels didn’t lessen the grace of Madame’s posture, the beauty with which she walked or moved. She wore an ankle-length black latex dress with a fetching silver racing stripe up each side; the thigh-high slit in back exposed Madame Krusher’s shapely legs with their lace-top fishnet stockings that hitched to black latex garters. On top, the dress molded to the enticing shape of Madame Krusher’s breasts, displaying her erect and dangerously-sharp-looking nipples. The latex dress buckled up to her shapely throat, presenting a conservative appearance in front — but the dress was backless, displaying the two matching nutcracker tattoos, one on each shoulder blade. Her long, black hair offset her amazingly pale face, with its blood-red lips. From those eminently kissable but undeniably hazardous lips jutted a long ebony cigarette holder. A slender European cigarette smoldered at the end.
Any normal woman wearing that much latex would have been sweating like a pig. But not Madame Krusher — she was as cool as a cucumber, or close to it.
But she was getting hot as she contemplated the cruel fate that awaited her unfortunate captives. Already, in the basement many floors below, Rocko was learning what a foolhardy thing it is to court the ire of Madame Krusher.
“The Duke sent me some boys to play with,” sneered Madame Krusher, her face flushing red with delight. “What a kind tribute for him to send! I shall see that we make excellent use of his gifts — though they may not be returned to him in entirely working order!”
“The Duke says FUCK YOU!” snarled the upside-down Vinnie, still swinging helplessly, having a little trouble formulating the words.
Madame Krusher closed in on him, her blood-red mouth twisting into an expression of pure, unadulterated cruelty.
Then, gradually, the edges of her lips curved upward.
She nuzzled the hot, smoking barrel of the Thompson between Vinnie’s legs, prodding his balls. He fought to keep from moaning in pain, but Madame Krusher could see the fear in his bloodshot eyes.
“Fuck me? The Duke of Whiskeytown wants to fuck me? How charming of him,” laughed Madame Krusher. “I think I’ll take him up on the offer some time. But for now, I’ll have to satisfy myself by fucking you. And your unfortunate collaborator –”
Madame Krusher stepped aside, and three more KrushGirls French-walked a stark-naked male figure into the room. It was Riley, the security guard, The Duke’s man on the inside. He had been handcuffed and gagged; his balls had also been placed in a complicated device which was sort of halfway between a set of vise-grips and a hand drill. Madame Krusher reached out and affectionately gave the handle a few cranks, bringing a pathetic moan from Riley’s lips.
Vinnie, viewing Riley in half-glimpses as he spun around helplessly, felt cold fear creeping through his body.
Madame Krusher cackled. “Girls, it’s time to have some fun with the tribute the Duke of Whiskeytown has sent our way! Let’s send them back to the Duke with a whole new set of cultural values and a few at least partially improved personality characteristics!”
“And walking funny,” Madame Krusher added under her breath, stalking away from Vinnie’s wildly swinging body, as her six KrushGirls closed in on Vinnie, whose pleas for mercy vanished into nothingness amid the ravenous sounds of the girls’ unholy delight.
From the trap door, the plaintive wails of Rocko drifted up, mingled with the delighted, evil laughter of another cadre of Madame Krusher’s KrushGirls.
Madame Krusher eyed Riley.
“And you,” sneered Madame Krusher. “You played right into my hands. By the time I’m through with you, The Duke will think twice about sending a spy into the House of Krush! Take ‘im away, Girls!”
The squirming Riley was dragged down the hall by the his own cackling KrushGirls.
Madame Krusher flicked her cigarette out of her holder and crushed it meticulously under the pointed toe of her boot.
“And maybe that sonofabitch’ll call and make an appointment himself,” she muttered for her own amusement before following her KrushGirls down the hall. She gave a little shudder as she contemplated that.
The Duke gave Frankie “The Axe” Vicelli a grave look as Frankie shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“See, we’re not really sure what happened to the boys,” Frankie was saying. “I mean, that place is locked up tighter than a nun’s asshole. And our guy on the inside seems to have, uh, well, he ain’t there no more. I figure he either took it on the lam, split with the money we gave ‘im without doing the job… or maybe something else went down.”
“Something else?” growled the Duke impatiently. His voice sounded like he’d just eaten a mouthful of gravel.
“Yeah,” said Frankie, crossing his legs. “Uh… like, got caught.”
“Like maybe that bitch got hold of him? Found him out?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Frankie, tightening his posture so he kind of faced one side. “Like, she got hold of him and… well, you know.”
The Duke shuddered.
“Yeah, I know.”
He inched closer to his desk, as if to protect his privates.
“See, without our man Riley in there, it’s like Rocko and Vinnie totally dropped off the face of the Earth. I mean, there’s no way to tell what’s being done to them.” Frankie reddened. “I don’t mean that. I mean, we don’t know if, like, Riley chickenshitted out on us without killing the alarm system, or if maybe they got iced coming down the wall, or something.”
“Those boys were the most skilled, most cold-hearted killers in the whole fucking country. Plus they were on loan from the Prince. If I don’t get those fuckers back to Minneapolis –”
“Hey, Duke, I mean, they knew it was a risky job. It’s not like that Krusher bitch don’t have a reputation. And those fucking KrushGirls –”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what they’re like, yeah,” said The Duke, his face reddening. He squirmed uncomfortably in his leather chair. He made a great show of lighting his cigar, paying maybe a little more attention to the clipping of it than was prudent.
“So Rocko and Vinnie might be dead,” said the Duke. “Or worse.” The Duke and Frankie shuddered simultaneously. “I can smooth things over with the Prince. He owes me a couple guys, anyway. What’s our next move?”
Junior stopped his pacing, turned and pointed accusingly at the Duke. “We don’t fucking give in! I say we get our boys, all our boys, every fucking hired gun this side of fucking Attica, and we take that bitch out! We go in there with Sherman tanks if we have to, you understand me, Pop? Donny the Undertaker up in Kansas City — he’s got Sherman tanks, right? We can get ‘im to loan us a couple. We’re gonna fuck that bitch up!”
The Duke looked at his youngest son and shrugged. “Hey, relax. All right, Junior, you said your piece. Now go smoke one of your Pall Malls or something.”
Junior collapsed into an easy chair to sulk.
“OK. Frankieboy, what do you think?”
Frankie shrugged. “It’s time. You gotta have a sitdown.”
“With that Krusher bitch? Come on. She’ll never give in.”
“Make her an offer. I think she’s ready to crack. These dominatrix bitches, you know, they’re all ego. She’s made her show of strength. Now you propose a business partnership that will be to your mutual benefit.”
“Yeah,” said the Duke, staring off into space. “Benefit.”
“I say we ice the bitch!” shouted Junior, half-rising out of his chair before losing steam in the face of his father’s stern, unforgiving glare.
“I said lighten the fuck up, Junior. All right, Frankie. You think we can crack this bitch?”
“I think we already did. She’s scared. She knows we can get at her, maybe she took down Rocko and Vinnie and maybe she knows we might get lucky next time. We’ll be offering her protection, plus a guarantee that she won’t get clipped by any of our interests. Even a power-hungry bitch like that — well, you know. She’s gotta see the logic in the arrangement.”
“So what do we offer her?”
“Fifty-fifty,” said Frankie. “It’s the only way she’ll take the bait.”
“Jesus,” spat the Duke disgustedly. “I haven’t given nobody a fifty-fifty since Al Capone personally came down to Whiskeytown and asked for a favor. And this bitch ain’t no Scarface Al.”
“More like J. Edgar Hoover,” snickered Junior, then let out a very pleased-with-himself sort of belly-laugh.
“What the fuck do you know from J. Edgar Hoover,” snarled the Duke. “Some day I’m going to send you off to prep school, you little fuck. All right, Frankieboy. I’m gonna trust your gut on this one. We’re bringing this Krusher lady to the table. She’s fuckin’ lucky I’m in a good mood.”
Frankie cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “She sure is lucky.”
Madame Krusher surveyed the naked rumps of her three newest acquisitions. After extensive training and sexual reprogramming under the merciless tutelage of the KrushGirls, Rocko, Vinnie and Riley (renamed Limpdick, Pansy and Weakling, and with fresh identifying tattoos just above their shaved pubic regions) had been returned to the Madame, who would test the thoroughness of the KrushGirls work. The KrushGirls never failed in a training — knowing that, if the victim failed to perform to Madame Krusher’s expectation, any involved KrushGirls could next find themselves in one of the Madame’s rather complicated bondage devices, looking forward to a long future of extensive discipline.
Now, she had Limpdick, Pansy and Weakling on their knees, bent low with their manacled arms stretched out in front of them. They had been allowed to turn their heads to one side, so that they could place their cheeks against the cement floor of the Madame’s personal dungeon. Their knees were apart the regulation twenty-four inches; each cock and balls was restrained in unsavory ways. Their pink, vulnerable assholes winked between their parted, smooth-shaved ass-cheeks, the openness and availability of the tiny openings speaking volumes about their ordeals over the last few days.
Madame Krusher was dressed in her casual training attire: a tight latex mini-dress with her trademark racing stripe down the side; the lace tops of her fishnet stockings were visible just under the hem of the dress. There was the faint shadow of something else under the dress.
Her hair was pulled up into a bun and she was smoking a Virginia Slim.
In one hand she casually held a rather nasty-looking riding crop.
“Who rules the universe, boys?”
“Madame Krusher rules the universe,” the three men said at once, without hesitation.
“And who rules the Earth, my succulent, obedient little minions?”
“Madame Krusher rules the Earth,” the three men said, but Limpdick’s voice caught a little, and Madame Krusher’s riding crop came hurtling down to draw a red swath of pain across his bare, shaved ass, bringing a yelp of fear and pain.
“Yes, yes,” Madame Krusher said with delight. “You’ve learned your lessons so well! But then, my KrushGirls can be such good teachers! And Whiskeytown? Who rules Whiskeytown, my worthless little fuckslaves?”
“Madame Krusher rules Whiskeytown,” came the flawless chorus from the three men on their knees.
“And your worthless, filthy little assholes!?!” Madame Krusher spat, tapping ash from the Virginia Slims over Pansy’s ass so that he twitched when the hot cherry landed on his flesh.
“Madame Krusher owns our assholes.”
“Good!” shrieked Madame Krusher with bliss, hiking up her latex skirt and whipping out the strap-on that had been concealed underneath. She let out a mad cackle of glee as she wanked the enormous rubber schlong around in big circles, aiming it like a gun. “Then which of you pathetic slaves is first!?!”
The sound of Madame Krusher’s laughter echoed throughout the House of Krush, and everywhere, slaves shivered in their stocks and cages.
The sit-down was conducted in the open field behind the canning plant out on Highway 30; each side was allowed to bring six heavily-armed guards. Madame Krusher’s guards held submachine guns; The Duke’s carried shotguns loaded with slugs (except for Frankie, who carried only his trademark axe).
The guards stood scowling and sneering at each other while Madame Krusher and The Duke met in the middle of the field, out of earshot of any of their men but well within range of the weapons.
The Duke wore his usual double-breasted business suit with a white carnation and a dark grey fedora. Madame Krusher looked shockingly potent in a shimmery plastic dress, black with red racing stripe, that came to her throat and plunged to her feet, but had a bound, impossibly-narrow waist and a somewhat stunning slit up the front, right between her long and quite amazing legs. The Duke was caught a little off-guard.
Madame Krusher started the talk with a rather demure expression of sorrow. “Phil, I’ve been a fool. A complete and utter fool not to see how perfectly charming you can be, how mutually beneficial an arrangement could exist between us. I’m so sorry it had to come to this. It’s really not to our advantage — not for either of our businesses. This is senseless, this kind of war — I never should have been so headstrong.
The Duke was still choking on his cigar from hearing himself called “Phil.” Nobody called him Phil except his mother and his ex-wife. Even his new wife, 22-year old porno starlet Mandi “Miss Mounds” Binkowski, called him The Duke. Normally he’d start having people killed for calling him Phil, but for some reason he just stood and stared, dumbfounded, at Madame Krusher.
“Phil, did you hear a word I said? Oh, I’m sorry, is it all right if I call you Phil?”
The Duke was still staring at the front of that dress, which molded to Madame Krusher’s breasts. He finally managed to tear his eyes away, though — he knew she was a crafty bitch.
“I’m so sorry, Phil,” Madame Krusher repeated. “It is all right if I call you Phil, isn’t it?” She nuzzled a little bit closer to The Duke, jiggling her tits just the faintest amount. “I definitely think we should be on a first name basis. You may call me Madeline.” She fluttered her eyelashes flirtatiously.
“Look here,” growled The Duke. “None of your smart-ass tricks, you ball-breaking bitch. We’re going — uh — 60-40 or it’s nothing.”
“Sounds delightful,” said Madame Krusher, flashing her white teeth and winning smile. “But please, do call Madeline.”
The Duke sneered. “60-40, you psycho cunt!”
“Lovely. Who gets the 40?” Madame Krusher absently stroked the neckline of her dress, drawing attention to her already quite noticeable bust. “And please, call me Madeline.”
The Duke seemed to be groping for an answer.
“You do, you power-hungry slut! 60% for my people!”
“Lovely,” said Madame Krusher. “That’s so generous of you. I recognize that an establishment such as mine needs the protection of your kind of organization. All the other houses of domination in Whiskeytown have come under your — protection, so I feel quite comfortable doing the same. I don’t doubt that this is the start of a beautiful friendship. And do, please do call me Madeline.”
The duke stared at her for a long time.
“You better believe it, you fruitcake nutcracker whore!” The Duke finally snarled, pointing his cigar at Madame Krusher accusingly. “And I want my Minneapolis loaners back today!”
“Oh, yes, Phil, I’m so sorry about them — I think you’ll find that I haven’t harmed them at all. I’ll send them back to you this afternoon.”
“Good,” said The Duke, his guard dropping a little. “They’re just on loan, you see. From the Prince.”
“Of course — and I wouldn’t dream of hurting your men. Phil, what’s more — to show my gratitude for the excellent deal you’ve offered me… ” Madame Krusher casually put her arm around The Duke’s shoulders. As she spoke, she nuzzled a little closer to him. “I should like to invite you to sample the wares at my house of domination. After all, if we’re now business partners — it only seems fair that you should be allowed to enjoy the pleasures under your protection — doesn’t it?”
The Duke looked suspicious, and Madame Krusher turned just slightly, brushing her breast with its erect nipple, latex-clad, against The Duke’s arm.
“I should like to personally see to your enjoyment while in my house. Bring as many men as you want. Bring all your men, if need be — I want you to feel safe.” Her hand came up to The Duke’s face and she gently began to massage his temples. She had to bend down to bring her face so close to his. “Totally safe, Phil. Totally, completely safe.”
Phil shifted uncomfortably, and would have crossed his legs — except that Madame Krusher’s eyes had already dropped, and a smile curved across her face as she licked her lips.
“It is all right if I call you Phil, isn’t it?”
The Duke uttered a barely-audible growl.
Madame Krusher fluttered her eyelids flirtatiously.
Madame Krusher ran her hand slowly up the curve of the shaved, flabby ass beside her on the bed. She sighed with pleasure as she reached down between the spread thighs to cup the absurdly-distended set of testicles, wrapped with a variety of ropes and cords, that had turned a bright, tortured color of red.
A murmur of pleasure escaped the man’s lips as Madame Krusher stroked the hard prick.
Then, without warning, she swatted the organ with her long fingernails and giggled in pleasure when the man’s whole body spasmed.
“Who rules the universe, Phil?”
The gravely voice was faint.
“You do, Madame Krusher.”
“Louder, Phil.” The Madame’s tone was uncharacteristically soothing.
“You rule the universe, Madame Krusher.”
“Very good. And Whiskeytown? Who rules Whiskeytown? Sometimes I forget, I’m so forgetful in my old age. Who rules Whiskeytown again?”
“You rule Whiskeytown, Madame Krusher,” said Phil, as Madame Krusher nuzzled her body up against his ass, tugging the strap-on dildo out of its hiding place under her latex dress.
“And who rules your sorry little asshole, Phil? Who is it?”
“You rule my asshole, Madame Krusher.”
Madame Krusher sighed a satisfied sigh as she mounted her slave.
Phil began to murmur contentedly as Madame Krusher did her business.
“And — my worthless, dickless little fuckboy — who gets the one-percent split of our little business here?”
“Unh — oh — I do, Madame Krusher.” Phil’s voice was hoarse with the exertion of accepting Madame Krusher’s shaft into his asshole. “But — uh — please — oh — allow me to offer my small percentage — as — unh — a tribute to your greatness — uh!”
“Why would you want to do that, Phil?” asked Madame Krusher in her most coy voice.
“Be– because — uh — you are the Queen, Madame Krusher — uh — the Queen of — uh –” He gave up, unable to form the words between the unforgiving, rapid thrusts of Madame Krusher’s cock.
“Oh, thank you so much, Phil,” sighed Madame Krusher as she fucked him, a little breathless from her own exertion. “You’re just too fucking good to me. And listen, I’m going to say this for the last time. Call me Madeline. You useless pathetic little pencildick fuckboy.”
Phil only grunted in response.
Thomas Roche is a writer and editor whose website, Skid Roche, showcases both his writing and his recent forays into erotic photography.