a Rayne Wylde story by Sadie Rose Bermingham 2004
On a cold night in December, just before Christmas, nineteen year old Rayne Wylde met up with his pimp, Rabid John, in the Dog and Ferret after a day's shopping in and around Soho and Carnaby Street. For the first time in his young life, Rayne found himself with money in his pockets as a result of his 'work' for Johnno. Not that it had stayed there for long, mind you. He clutched the carrier bags in his hands like trophies hard won in battle and refused to let go, even after John bought him a pint of lager-shandy.
"Not too much booze, you're on a job' tonight," he cautioned.
"You said I could have this weekend off." Rayne eyed him resentfully from beneath his floppy, bottle blond forelock.
He was boyishly skinny in black jeans and a black mesh vest that showed off tiny, dark, silver-studded nipples. A friend of Johnno's had pierced his nips for him last time they all smoked crack together. They were still a bit tender but the little, barbed studs looked great protruding either side of his stiff young buds. Even the regulars occasionally checked him out when they thought John was looking the other way. No one in Mile End crossed Rabid John. The nickname had been earned and it certainly was not a term of endearment.
"Yeah, well you can after you've turned this little trick for me, yeah? It'll only take an hour or so but it come up sudden, like."
"Can't anybody else do it?" The blond lad necked half his pint and fired Johnno a stare that was pure, youthful arrogance.
"Nobody else has got the credentials you have, baby," John soothed. "These are big money punters, all right? Out of town boys, lookin' for somethin' fresh an' tight."
"Aww fuck it, John! I'm sick of playin' virgin for some dozy cunt that can't get it on with a grown up!" the pretty little whore complained bitterly.
"Yeah? Well think about five 'undred quid an hour, will you. That's what they're payin'."
The boy's lime green eyes widened conspicuously. He reached for the glass again. John's hand got there first.
"Take your time, Raymonde. Won't do to 'ave you turn up reekin' of ale now, will it?"
"How many of them are there?" Ray looked suspicious. He had recently serviced a seven man gang-bang that left him unable to walk straight for a week. Johnno could not blame him for being wary.
"Just the two this time. Big businessmen; Chinese Mafia, maybe. They're sure flashin' their cash about!"
"I'm not so sure," Rayne muttered doubtfully.
"You've nothin' to worry about. They want a fourteen-year-old with a virgin arse so they can film a bono-fido deflowerin'. They're payin' good money and I know you can pull it off, Ray. Just look cute and play dumb and scared for 'em." John emptied his pint glass for him and ruffled Rayne's artfully styled slick of fringe.
He dressed down deliberately for the job. The loose, faded blue jeans were slightly less revealing than his black pair and coupled with a baggy t-shirt with a skate-boarding logo on the front. He ran his hands through his hair leaving it roughly tousled and removed all traces of make-up and nail polish carefully. His piercings were more problematic. He just hoped that the holes would be invisible in the darkness and his nipples would not heal too quickly once the studs were out. On the plus side they were amazingly sensitive tonight.
He shaved his legs and armpits and between his thighs diligently in the shower whilst Johnno watched. Once he had towelled himself dry the older man felt him up unashamedly, checking that he was perfectly, boyishly smooth all over. Only then did he let Rayne get dressed.
The venue for their rendezvous was a backstreet hotel in Bayswater and they got a taxi there, Rayne staring wordlessly out of the window at the drizzle and the dark, wet London night as Johnno rolled a joint. He wore a dark blue duffle coat and a cap with some biker logo on it. At the hotel, they walked up a short flight of narrow steps into a bleak, featureless foyer with linoleum floors that smelled faintly of vomit and cleen-o-pine, and fake teak panelling on the walls. The reception was behind a metal grille. Johnno murmured something to the dark-skinned fellow behind the bars and he nodded and pushed a single Yale key on a white plastic fob under the grille towards the skinny, unshaven fellow in the long black coat.
Now Johnno nodded towards the uncarpeted stairs at the far end of the foyer and Rayne followed unenthusiastically. The room was on the third floor and they let themselves in in pensive silence. Johnno flicked the light switch and the space beyond was illuminated dimly by a bare, 40watt bulb hanging from the high ceiling. The floors here were also scabby lino. An iron framed three-quarter width bed and a wooden chair constituted the only furnishing. There was a badly fitted door in the wall beyond the bed, which led, on closer inspection to a small, walk in wardrobe with three fixed hangers on a rail and a folded spare blanket on a high shelf. Rayne took his coat off and hung it up, closing the door quietly.
"This is the pits," he declared morbidly, sitting down on the bed, which squeaked like a wounded bird.
Johnno said nothing, only pulled the moth-eaten curtains together and lit his roll up. In a room somewhere beneath them, a door slammed and was locked and after a brief murmur of voices a couple began to have rapid, noisy sex. Rayne pulled up both feet onto the shabby counterpane and hugged his knees miserably.
After about fifteen minutes, they both heard the sound of footsteps outside and Johnno turned half anxiously, half expectantly. There was a tentative knock at their door and he sprang across the room to open it, admitting a pair of oriental men, in their late forties, perhaps. One was rather portly and his dark hair was receding above the black-rimmed spectacles perched on his forehead. The other was wiry, grey-suited and already grey haired. He gripped Johnno's hand and pumped it vigorously for a few moments, then in broken English introduced his broader companion, Mr. Chen lo Sing.
Chen lo Sing was wearing a dark, well-cut suit and overcoat and carrying a square, silvery case, which he set down on the floor now, looking around the room a little distastefully. His small, narrow eyes finally lit upon Rayne, still curled around himself on the bed and he said something in Mandarin which the wiry fellow quickly translated.
"Mr Chen says what is the boy's name?"
"Jason," Rayne said quickly before Johnno could open his mouth. He was not ready to give this man anything more than he had to, and this included his name.
There was a further brief consultation and the translator smiled condescendingly.
"Mr. Chen says, 'ah... like the Argonauts?'"
