Stan Goldman and Barb Moore of "Bronx Crux Murders" and "Roman Holiday" are back again ... this time in a new adventure called ...
LONDON CALLING
Barb 1
I squeezed myself gingerly into my window seat. We had just boarded our 11:05 am EasyJet flight from Rome to London Gatwick.
My tight little was still red and sore from the beating it had taken the night before at the hands of Goldman and his oversexed Italian pal, Roberto ... or Bob as he liked to be called. My posterior discomfort was hard to ignore. Sitting anywhere, much less on an airplane seat, was not very pleasant.
As a birthday surprise, Goldman and Roberto had taken me on a private after-hours tour of Rome's ancient Mamartine Prison. And although privately I had to admit to myself that being locked against my will in an old Roman dungeon cell, stripped naked, ass-whipped and forcibly fucked from behind had been erotically exciting, there was no way I would ever give Goldman the satisfaction of knowing that. I was mad, and as far as he was concerned, he was in the proverbial doghouse.
To vent my still smoldering anger, I viciously kicked my carry on bag beneath the seat in front of me, belted myself firmly in place, and made a point of glaring sullenly at Goldman as he plopped himself down beside me. I was giving him the total cold silent treatment, and offering no quarter. I had even made the man sleep in a hotel room chair on our last night in Rome. I refused to share the bed with him.
Over breakfast, I played with his iPhone (having broken mine the night before in a fit of frustration over being left locked in a dark cell while he and Bob went out for dinner and drinks) and pointedly restricted all responses to his pathetic attempts to make conversation to nothing more than a series of grunts and frowns. In short, I was ignoring the man's very existence and didn't give a damn how he felt about that.
And, I figured the treatment was getting to him, 'cause he was looking downright glum and downcast. I was smiling inwardly and feeling rather pleased with myself until I suddenly remembered that Goldman had arranged for us to meet up in London with another of his cop acquaintances. Probably some condescending stuffed shirt, I imagined ... with a name like Bill Pritchard, what else could he be?
Well!!!! I figured I already had enough of Goldman's friends. The revolting memory of how, in that Roman dungeon cell, Bob had taken advantage of my helplessness and forced me to suck his prick, raced through my mind. The very thought made me shudder and feel angry all over again, which in turn prompted me to elbow Goldman sharply in the ribs and feign innocence when he turned to look at me.
Ohhhh, there were so many ways I was going to get even! Goldman didn't know it yet, but that morning I had surreptitiously re-booked us into the swankiest, most expensive hotel I could find in London ... the Dorchester. I could already imagine his eyes bulging when he saw the room charge. And little did he know that he would be spending his nights there in a chair, rather than the bed!
But then I had another, even more wicked, idea. Goldman may have planned to foist this Bill Pritchard on me, but I could play that game too. I decided I would introduce him to my old college roommate, Georgiana Merriweather. If anyone could help me turn the tables and transform our London visit into a nightmare for Goldman, Georgie could! I resolved to contact her from the Dorchester as soon as we had checked in.
With that in mind, I actually shot Goldman a smile, albeit one with a fiendish edge to it.
He looked perplexed.
"You're smiling at me," he said tentatively.
"I'm not."
"Yes you are. I saw you."
"When pigs fly, Goldman!"
As if on cue, the pilot opened the jet's throttles. The engines roared, the plane leapt forward, and we were airborne.
TO BE CONTINUED
LONDON CALLING
Barb 1
I squeezed myself gingerly into my window seat. We had just boarded our 11:05 am EasyJet flight from Rome to London Gatwick.
My tight little was still red and sore from the beating it had taken the night before at the hands of Goldman and his oversexed Italian pal, Roberto ... or Bob as he liked to be called. My posterior discomfort was hard to ignore. Sitting anywhere, much less on an airplane seat, was not very pleasant.
As a birthday surprise, Goldman and Roberto had taken me on a private after-hours tour of Rome's ancient Mamartine Prison. And although privately I had to admit to myself that being locked against my will in an old Roman dungeon cell, stripped naked, ass-whipped and forcibly fucked from behind had been erotically exciting, there was no way I would ever give Goldman the satisfaction of knowing that. I was mad, and as far as he was concerned, he was in the proverbial doghouse.
To vent my still smoldering anger, I viciously kicked my carry on bag beneath the seat in front of me, belted myself firmly in place, and made a point of glaring sullenly at Goldman as he plopped himself down beside me. I was giving him the total cold silent treatment, and offering no quarter. I had even made the man sleep in a hotel room chair on our last night in Rome. I refused to share the bed with him.
Over breakfast, I played with his iPhone (having broken mine the night before in a fit of frustration over being left locked in a dark cell while he and Bob went out for dinner and drinks) and pointedly restricted all responses to his pathetic attempts to make conversation to nothing more than a series of grunts and frowns. In short, I was ignoring the man's very existence and didn't give a damn how he felt about that.
And, I figured the treatment was getting to him, 'cause he was looking downright glum and downcast. I was smiling inwardly and feeling rather pleased with myself until I suddenly remembered that Goldman had arranged for us to meet up in London with another of his cop acquaintances. Probably some condescending stuffed shirt, I imagined ... with a name like Bill Pritchard, what else could he be?
Well!!!! I figured I already had enough of Goldman's friends. The revolting memory of how, in that Roman dungeon cell, Bob had taken advantage of my helplessness and forced me to suck his prick, raced through my mind. The very thought made me shudder and feel angry all over again, which in turn prompted me to elbow Goldman sharply in the ribs and feign innocence when he turned to look at me.
Ohhhh, there were so many ways I was going to get even! Goldman didn't know it yet, but that morning I had surreptitiously re-booked us into the swankiest, most expensive hotel I could find in London ... the Dorchester. I could already imagine his eyes bulging when he saw the room charge. And little did he know that he would be spending his nights there in a chair, rather than the bed!
But then I had another, even more wicked, idea. Goldman may have planned to foist this Bill Pritchard on me, but I could play that game too. I decided I would introduce him to my old college roommate, Georgiana Merriweather. If anyone could help me turn the tables and transform our London visit into a nightmare for Goldman, Georgie could! I resolved to contact her from the Dorchester as soon as we had checked in.
With that in mind, I actually shot Goldman a smile, albeit one with a fiendish edge to it.
He looked perplexed.
"You're smiling at me," he said tentatively.
"I'm not."
"Yes you are. I saw you."
"When pigs fly, Goldman!"
As if on cue, the pilot opened the jet's throttles. The engines roared, the plane leapt forward, and we were airborne.
TO BE CONTINUED
Last edited: