London’s streets sound with a neverending torrent of rain.

On this particular spring evening, the pale, washed-out sun does nothing to alleviate the gloom.

Not that it is of any concern to the occupants of a swanky Knightsbridge apartment. The tony décor and matching price tag belie the two men’s more modest working-class origins.

There is the hard rap of dainty, solid knuckles at the door.

A rat-faced British man with erect hair calls out before taking another sip of Dom Perignon, “George, get the door, it’s her.”

George hurries to the door, tucking his limp noodle into his terrycloth robe, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Caolan, I’m not even dressed.”

“Well, I’m a bit busy at the moment,” Caolan says.

The knocking, impatient now, sounds louder.

George pulls the door open. “Lauren, we’ve been expecting you,” he says to a slim, no-assed, dyed blonde girl in her mid-twenties.

“I can tell,” Lauren looks up and down George’s bathrobe, “by how prepared you are.” She waves her hand derisively at George.

“Now Lauren, you don’t need to be rude,” George squeaks.

She glares past George at Caolan. “Dude, tell your twink to get the fuck out of my way.”

Caolan swallows a sip of his champagne and says, “Now is that any way to greet two of your best former collaborators? Especially the only ones you didn’t have to do the old in-‘n-out with?”

George steps aside, but Lauren just stands there, eyes fixed in a stare that could melt steel.

Caolan continues, “Lauren, please. George, let our dear Lauren in. After all, you both share a penchant for yummy-colored men.”

She throws more heated glances, to George, then to Caolan, then back to George.

George steps aside and heads to the kitchen. “I’m making a White Russian, if anyone cares.”

“Oh, we don’t, sugar lips,” Caolan says.

Lauren sits down across from Caolan.

“Now Lauren, your message seemed to indicate there was some unfinished business, a small matter of some money?” he says.

“I wouldn’t call $50,000 a ‘small’ matter,” she answers.

“Oh, I forgot, you’ve decided to ‘retire,’ giving up your loads of beta donations. New hubby can’t keep up with your tastes?”

Lauren’s face flushes a bright red.

“Listen, you little fag, I am this close,” she holds her thumb and forefinger an inch apart, “from having my lawyer file suit for fraud.”

“Ooh, kitty has claws,” George says from the kitchen, shotgunning his White Russian.

“Not to worry: we have the money and I promise we will cut you the cheque tomorrow.” Caolan places his hand over his heart.

Caolan slides a full champagne glass over to Lauren and pours a third for George.

“For a toast, to honor among grifters.”

“Whatever,” Lauren says as she slugs down the Dom Perignon.

“At least with us, you didn’t have to act like the trad waifu. Come on, love, admit it; it was a bit of fun playing both sides against each other, and getting paid to boot.” Caolan winks at Lauren.

Lauren relaxes back into her seat. “True. God, that shit was getting old. ‘Oh Lauren, we love you so much,’ ‘You’re doing the Lord’s work, Lauren,” or some lame marriage proposal bullshit. I don’t miss the lovey-dovey bullshit with middle-aged married men.”

“Cheers to that.”

They clink glasses and drink their toast when George blunders over, snatching up the proffered champagne glass.

“And to Lauren’s happy retirement, even if she is taking our money.”

“Your money, motherfucker?” Lauren jumps up and slaps George. George’s robe flies open, revealing a pale soy physique.

George cries, “I’m sorry. It must be the acid talking.”

Lauren slaps him again, shouting, “Say it again, you little bottom bitch! You don’t have any idea what it’s like being right-wing incel spank bank material.”

While Caolan laughs, George’s noodle stiffens.

Caolan observes, approving, “Oh, dear Lauren, look at what you have done: gotten little Georgie excited.”

“Don’t hurt me again, mmmmoooooommmmyyyyyy.”

“Fucking fag,” she spits out.

Caolan rises, an obvious boner poking through his slacks. Standing next to Lauren, he points at her hard nipples. “If you don’t mind, Lauren, I’ve got to give Georgie his binky. If you care to, we have a strap-on in the top left drawer of the dresser to your right when you first enter the bedroom.”

George is sucking off Caolan when Lauren re-enters the living room stripped down and sporting a ten-inch black strap-on.

Caolan shoves George onto the couch and fetches a tube of Astroglide from a desk drawer.

As he applies the lube to the black, rubbery dong he tell Lauren, “Must be a nice change, giving instead of receiving.”

“Oh yeah,” she says with a cold smile.

Lauren pounds furiously at George’s asshole, yelling, “I ain’t calling no one daddy no more! No more stanky daddy dick for me! You like Mommy’s dick, little boy? You fucking like it?!”

Caolan reclines on in a chair stroking his cock. “Oh yeah, Lauren, give it to that bad, bad little boy whore. Mommy’s so hot when she’s in charge.”

George, burying his face into the couch, grunts and whines in an alternating high and low voice, “I’ll be good, Mommy. I’ll be good. Is Daddy pleased? Please tell me he is pleased.”

Lauren looks over at Caolan choking his chicken, then leans in on George and says in a dark, husky voice, “Oh yeah, he’s pleased.”

Caolan moves behind Lauren, applying Astroglide to his rod.

Lauren looks at him. “Use a lot of lube. I don’t like anal burn.”

Caolan is liberal with the Astroglide before pulling aside Lauren’s black lace thong.

He jams his dick up her ass.

Caolan’s thrusting speeds up Lauren’s thrusting, causing George to scream in an ecstatic falsetto. George lets out hard, sharp gasps, spooging all over the satin couch. Caolan shoots his wad in Lauren’s rectum.

With sudden violence, she yanks out the big black dick, a tremendous sucking sound preceding a huge fart from George.

“Oh my fucking God!” Caolan exclaims as the rank-churned shit smell fills the room. Lauren turns, gagging. Caolan runs towards the bathroom puking, followed by Lauren panting, “IhavetoshitIhavetoshitIhavetoshit…”

He slips on a glob of Astroglide and lands on the living room floor. Lauren trips over him, going down in a tangle.

The pressure builds as Lauren hops up into a squat over Caolan and drops a massive cum and diarrhea load on his chest.

George sees this and starts screaming.

“Eeeeeeeeeee! The shit weasels, the shit weasels! Eeeeeeeeee!” And bolts out the front door.

Lauren grabs her clothes and follows suit.

“Won’t be seeing you later. I’ll be expecting that check in the mail.”

Caolan shouts after her, “Oi! Get back here, you discount Ann Coulter ripoff, and help me with this bleeding mess!”

Caolan’s entreaties echo through an empty, crap-stinking posh apartment.

The rain’s hiss continues outside.