Chapter 31 Chet #3
Until invisible strings pull at my lips and twist them into a delighted grin.
As I gaze around Her Majesty’s chambers, the tiny red diamonds begin to sparkle violently, some of them twitching as though they have their own heartbeat.
They then begin to dance in an elegant waltz around one another until all I see is a solid wall of cherry-colored crystal.
It's the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
At first the wall of diamonds is solid, but then tiny bursts of light peer through it. The pores in the wall enlarge, swell, until they reveal a resplendent scene in front of me. Her Majesty, completely nude, bouncing up and down over my naked chest.
My God. My manhood is within her, the walls of her privates closing in on me like a pillowed mollusk.
It feels magnificent.
Is this what Tim meant when he told me the physical act of intimacy was the greatest gift given to man?
Her Majesty is doing the bulk of the work, but I begin to undulate my hips in tandem with her. She bends her head backward, tweaking her own perky breasts as I secrete my own warm fluid inside her body.
Today, the Jack of Hearts is a man.
My vision blurs, and Her Majesty’s womanhood opens wide, swallowing my entire body up into it. Somehow, I am inside her body, privy to its stunning ins and outs. Her glorious stomach, her sumptuous liver, her exquisite intestines—all of them lined with the same red diamonds as her office.
Again, glimmers of light begin to burst through, small at first but then broadening until I’m back in Her Majesty’s four-poster bed, still completely nude, but no longer experiencing the physical pleasure of her cantering upon my shaft.
Instead, she is at my side, a toothy smile splitting her powdered face.
I cock my head, and she gestures to the floor.
Her bedchambers are lined with dark-red cherry hardwood, and splayed across it is the body of a woman I recognize—the Three of Hearts.
One of the servers in the club who, like me, never got much attention from the patrons.
I never saw Three accompany anyone behind the velvet curtains.
I slowly lift my body up and gaze at her. She’s in her Aces uniform—a black bikini speckled with silver hearts, baring the bulk of her porcelain skin that is unmarred except for a few faint bruises on her neck.
“Yes, Chet,” the serpentine hiss of Her Majesty’s whisper glides into my ear. “She’s dead.”
I blink. Dead?
I feel nothing for Three. We were never close. But how did she die? I dare not ask. Her Majesty still has not given me permission to speak.
She reaches under the bed and pulls out a long, jagged saw. She leans back into my ear, licking the lobe before she croons gently, “Off with her head.”
I point to my own chest, as if to clarify that she expects me to do the honors.
She nods slowly, her grin growing. “Of course, Chet. The head must be removed, and then we begin the harvest.”
The harvest? What does she mean? It’s early March.
But I dare not ask for further elucidation. Her Majesty bade me to decapitate the girl’s body, and I owe her everything in my life.
So I do it. I bring the blade against my former coworker’s throat, and I saw. Right. Left. Right. Left.
The throat bursts easily, spilling blood over Her Majesty’s immaculate floor. It’s fascinating, how easily the knife cuts through. There is a little resistance when I hit her spinal cord, but I make quick work of it. Soon Three’s head is removed from the rest of her body.
I’m mystified by the biology. The musculature. The fragility of the human design.
Three is plain, but she is still a beautiful woman.
And her inside is even more beautiful than her outside.
* * *
Five years I’ve been the bouncer at Aces. I’ve met so many interesting people. City and state government officials, socialites, billionaire business owners, the crème de la crème of the Chicago metropolitan area.
I have been most enraptured by a man who’s been coming to the club for quite some time. The son of a legacy patron of Aces, Henry Hathaway, the disgraced former mayor of Chicago.
Maddox is his name. Mr. Maddox Hathaway.
He came alone at first. Then he started bringing a well-respected surgeon with him, his best friend. One Dr. Harrison O’Rourke. They’re close, but their friendship is normal.
For the most part, at least. They have some sort of shared fascination with teapots. Around Christmastime last year, Mr. Hathaway gifted Dr. O’Rourke a teapot-shaped ornament. It struck me as odd, but then again, all the Aces patrons have their peculiarities.
Her Majesty has told me to keep an eye on him. Apparently, toward the end of his life, Mr. Hathaway’s father was making some trouble for her. I don’t know the full details, but she has made it clear that if he puts one toe out of line, his membership—inherited from his father—will be revoked.
Aces has hidden cameras and microphones scattered throughout the premises.
I’ve checked in on Mr. Hathaway quite a bit.
He’s never once indicated any wariness of Her Majesty’s methodology of discontinuing her employees’ services.
He usually just spends his time at Spades, grabs a few drinks—typically a gin and tonic laced with elderflower liqueur—and occasionally courts a woman, takes her home with him.
Tonight the Black Door opens, and in walks Mr. Hathaway. But on his arm is not the rugged Dr. O’Rourke, but rather a petite woman with long blond hair.
She’s angelic. Perhaps the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
I offer her my signature grin, hoping it will entice her into the fray.
She swallows, her eyes widening. The muscles in her arms and jaw tense, and for a moment it looks like she’s going to run the other way. Mr. Hathaway leans into her, murmurs something into her ear.
The woman’s body relaxes. She then takes a deep breath in and walks toward me, Mr. Hathaway at her side.
Mr. Hathaway gestures toward me. “This is Chet. He’ll be checking us in.”
I gaze at the woman. “Is this your first time, young lady?”
She swallows. “Yes, sir.”
I widen my eyes. No one has ever called me “sir” in my life. “No need to call me sir. I’m Chester Tabbit, the club bouncer. You can call me Chet. I’m responsible for checking members in.”
I reach my hand out, and after hesitating a moment, the woman shakes it.
I turn to Mr. Hathaway. “ID?”
He rolls his eyes, like he does every time he comes into the club. “Come on, Chet. You know who I am. I’ve been coming here for years now.”
“And as I have told you before, Mr. Hathaway, the only person who gets in without ID is Rouge. Club policy. Everyone else, no matter who they are—politicians, businessmen, even the President of the United States himself—has to show ID at the front door and be checked against the list.”
Mr. Hathaway nods and grabs his wallet out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out his driver’s license and hands it to me.
“You too, miss.” I nod toward the woman.
She uneasily reaches into her bag, pulls out her wallet, and hands her license to me.
I scan both of them. I’ve seen Mr. Hathaway’s countless times, but the woman’s is new. She truly is beautiful. Angelic in her beauty.
“Maravilla. A beautiful name. Spanish, I assume?”
She nods. “Yes. My father was born in Spain.”
“It means wonder, doesn’t it?”
* * *
Miss Wonder.
I find her most mesmerizing.
A hint of a British accent, and the most beautiful hair and skin I’ve ever seen on a woman.
I don’t want to have her in the physical way. I’ve only done that with one woman—Her Majesty. And only once. Never again. It was a lovely moment, and I don’t want to spoil it with another.
But there is something about Miss Wonder that draws me in, something I’ve never experienced when meeting a woman. Not even Her Majesty.
I pull out a small electronic tablet and pull up the live feed from the Aces security cameras.
The two of them are in Spades, of course.
Sitting at a small table, giving their order to the Seven of Spades.
Mr. Hathaway is always in Spades, though he did socialize with some charming young women in Diamonds a few weeks back.
His manner with this woman is different.
Mr. Hathaway is leaning in, and even through the grain of the camera’s picture, it’s clear by the sparkle in his eyes that he is as enthralled with this woman as I am.
They’re close to one of the hidden microphones. I place a bud in my ear and listen in on their conversation.
“Do you ever go to the symphony?” Miss Wonder asks.
He shakes his head. “I haven’t. I’ve always wanted to. Chicago has a world-class symphony orchestra.”
She beams. “I’ll have to take you sometime.
I have a few friends who work in the box office, colleagues of mine from school.
They can get us discounted tickets. I catch a performance now and then, when my schedule allows.
I usually drag Dinah along. But it would be much nicer to have a handsome man on my arm. ”
He leans in. “I’d love to accompany you to a concert of theirs sometime. Who’s your favorite composer?”
She pauses before chuckling nervously. “Shostakovich.”
Mr. Hathaway widens his eyes. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s a Russian composer. Soviet, technically. He composed some fantastic music, mostly while living under the rule of Stalin.”
My soul leaps with joy. Dmitri Shostakovich is my favorite composer as well. The way he uses musical codes in his symphonies and concerti has always enchanted me. I’ve never lost my love of riddles, and he’s the master of flawlessly integrating them into his works.
Not unlike Mr. Hathaway, I’m leaning in.
* * *