London Calling - James Craig [28]
He could go on forever. He wanted to go on for ever.
‘Get on with it!’ shouted a drunken voice.
Someone else giggled. ‘Others are waiting, you know!’
‘Hurry up!’
Something bounced off his back. A bottle of beer was poured over his head.
‘He’s fucking for England!’
‘It’s the rape of Lucretia … part two.’
‘I think he’s enjoying it too much.’
‘Fucking pervert.’
‘Come on you … you poofter!’
More giggles. ‘Use it or lose it!’
It was time to concentrate. To cross the finish line, get it done. Holding on for dear life, he had to force himself still further inside his new-found soul mate, in search of that twitch in the groin that told you there was no way back. The moment when you were ready to shoot your load, and would have happily fucked a rabid pit bull to make it happen. A few more thrusts and he found it. He grunted and let go. Stars exploded before his eyes and behind his brain. The cheering reached a crescendo. He collapsed into one final caress, before various hands dragged him away.
Crawling on to a couch in a corner of the room, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the next man taking his turn. His dick, smeared with shit, was still throbbing. He lovingly squeezed it with his right hand and felt the blood pumping through it. Gently caressing it, he felt it begin to harden again before letting it go. Reaching down to the floor, he picked up a crumpled tailcoat, pulling it over his nakedness.
He lay there feeling at one with the universe. The signals going to his pituitary gland prompted the release of a flood of endorphins, the body’s own form of morphine, into his bloodstream, sending a flood of exhilaration and well-being through his body. This truly was bliss. Even if he lived for another sixty … or seventy … or eighty years, he knew that this could never be bettered. However, wherever, whenever he lay on his deathbed, he would remember this moment with a smile on his face, while his wife – some pretty young thing, wife number two, or maybe number three – and his gaggle of children and grandchildren looked on, distraught as their world crumbled around them.
A cheer went up as the next man dismounted, still in a state of considerable excitement, his right arm pumping furiously. He looked up and saw an arc of semen heading towards the door. ‘The cleaner’s not going to like that!’ someone squeaked, as it splashed across the wooden floor.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the amused expression on his brother’s face. The place was wrecked. Food, booze, glass and god knows what else everywhere. It looked like a bunch of coked-up, incontinent chimpanzees had run amok with Uzis. Not that it mattered. Like it or not, his cleaning lady could sort it out tomorrow. That’s what he paid her a more than generous £1.50 an hour to do. Tonight he cared not a jot. Oblivious to tomorrow, he lay there, panting like a dog, basking in the glow of the best sex that he had ever had. The best sex that he would ever have.
The day had gone; life is short.
NINE
With money to burn, the average world traveller of The Garden Hotel’s itinerant tribe of global travellers would probably not expect to swing even a small cat for somewhere north of three hundred pounds a night, and in room 329 they would not have been disappointed. The room was small, but perfectly formed. ‘Simple, serene, practical and pure – but full of wit, style and surprise’, had been the description of the décor, in the hotel’s brochure. Someone had certainly got a surprise here, thought Carlyle, as he pulled out his mobile phone and