The Necrophiles Have Your Wife

Pt. III: Chez 69

When Allison woke up the phone was ringing insistently. She reached over to the night stand and dragged it onto the bed with her and picked up the receiver.

"Yes?"

"Made up your mind, Allison?" It was the raspy voice.

At first, she couldn't focus on the meaning of the question. Then, suddenly, it all came rushing back into her. The whiskey. She had drunk too much. She wasn't used to it. She felt sick, and her body ached all over. She struggled to pull her thoughts together. Her hand moved down her belly. She was still naked. Her hand paused at her pubic mound. It was swollen and tingly. The slit was open and moist. The hairs had a crusty feeling to them.

"Well?" the raspy voice prodded, interrupting her thoughts.

* * *

It was rainy. So the overcoat became a raincoat. She rolled her hair up into a bun and, after putting on her make up, selected a pair of high heeled, white pumps. She rolled up a wad of hundred dollar bills and placed a rubber band around it. This she shoved into her coat pocket.

She called a cab, and told the driver where to take her, trying to ignore the salacious look he gave her when she'd told him the address.

Chez 69 was located in a sleazy red light district. Here and there a miniskirted whore stood in the lee of a doorway, out of the rain, waiting for a trick to drive by or a cop looking for a kickback. Young black youths, gang bangers, were hanging out on a nearby corner, ignoring the rain, in their oversized clothes, gold chains and expensive sneakers. The occasional hiss of tires sounded on the wet pavement.

"Hey, mama," one of the youths called out to her. "Why doncha come upstairs with me and my bros. You a fine lookin' ho. We show you good time."

She hurried to the entrance of Chez 69, hearing their taunts and laughter behind her.

A man, dressed in black, stood at the doorway. She asked for Sid, the name raspy voice had given her. Dull-eyed, chewing on a toothpick, he jerked his head to the side, indicating that she go in.

Chez 69 was, she saw, a strip club. A runway divided the small room in two. There was a bar on her left and a scattering of tables. Stools, where patrons could sit, lined both sides of the runway. To her right was a series of booths. It was early, so there were only a few customers sitting about drinking. She peered around in the semi-darkness of a blue, neon glow. Men, naturally, were sizing her up. But no one in particular showed any sign that he was the special one expecting her.

Being in a sleazy bar alone was enough to make her nervous, but knowing that she was also naked under her thin, vinyl raincoat made her feel panic-stricken. It was only an effort of will power that kept her from turning and running out the door. Plus the knowledge that the gang bangers were still out there.

Taking a deep breath, she weaved a path around the tables to the bartender.

"What can I do for you, lady?" he asked.

She told him.

To Be Continued...