Doctor Karma’s Cosmic Emporium: Part 7

By M. Greene published February 10, 2019

Domestic upheaval

Doctor Karma’s Cosmic Emporium

Part 7

Rashawn Charles:

After seeing us fucking, Camilla runs off crying.

I’m about to clean myself off with some tissues, but, before I can do this, Richard has dived on my dick and is enthusiastically licking up my mess. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that his wife has just seen him committing adultery with another man…

While Richard’s tonguing my dick down, my mind is working overtime. This whole situation, bizarre to start with, is rapidly spiralling out of control. No doubt due to something Curtis Mavour has done to him, Richard appears to have turned into a mindless, gay sex-addict. Whatever drug Mavour used on him is beyond strong in its effects. The police are analysing it right now and when they work out what it is, they are highly likely to lock Richard up and throw away the key. If that happens, we will be separated and we will have no chance of getting our old bodies back.

That’s problem one. Problem two is that, after witnessing her husband having gay sex, Camilla is highly likely to want a divorce. She will almost certainly want a separation and ask me to get out of this house. With no home and no money, I’m going to end up back on the streets, but this time as a white man.

Richard finishes cleaning me up and sits back on his heels at my feet. “Fuck mi again, Boss,” he says, looking up at me with his lascivious brown eyes.

I shake my head. “Not for a while, I’m afraid, old chap.” I point to my flaccid white dick. “This needs to recharge for a while…”

He looks disappointed. “Yuh owe mi funds fi di sex…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yuh owe mi funds fi di sex!”

I shake my head. “I don’t owe you anything, my friend.” What’s happened to him, I wonder. He’s acting as though he’s some kind of two-bit male whore…

“Pay mi nah!” He’s actually shouting at me! “Masta wi be vex eff mi don’t bring him di cash!”

“Master? Who is your Master?”

“Master Curtis… Curtis Mavour…” Richard’s expression changes from anger to a grin of adoration at the very mention of this name.

I grasp him by the shoulders. “Listen… Mavour is a very bad man… He’s dangerous… You must promise me to have nothing to do with him, you hear me?”

Richard still has this dumb grin on his face. “Him mi Masta - mi luv him!”

“Look… I feel dirty and sticky, so I’m going to have a very quick shower, okay? Wait right here and don’t move!”

“Mi wi stay til mi get mi funds…”

Disconcerted and bemused by Richard’s strange behaviour, I head for the shower. What on earth has that fucker Curtis done to him?

Richard Carlton-Jones:

The damned thief won’t give me Master’s money… Daddy will be vexed if I roll up with no cash for him… I don’t know what to do. Then I see the man’s clothes in a heap on the floor… I root through the pockets and find a wallet. There’s cash inside! I’m naked, so I look around and see that the room is full of fresh clothes. I dress in some nice clean jeans and a fresh top and put on the best sneakers I can find. There’s a cool cashmere coat hanging up on one of the clothing racks, so I take that too. Now I need to get out of this house and find my Daddy…

Rashawn Charles:

I feel better after the shower, but when I return to the dressing room, I find that not only has Richard disappeared, but the wallet I stole from Mavour’s thug has gone too. That was the last of my cash! I hang up the slightly crumpled suit I wore to the hospital and police station and throw the shirt, pants and socks into the laundry basket. Then I notice that the clothes Richard was wearing last night are also lying in a heap in another corner of the room. The old leather jacket he had on is there too. At least he can’t get very far without his clothes, I think. I search through the pockets and find his wallet. Opening it reveals not only fifty pounds in notes, but around ten credit and debit cards. Great!

I’ve just finished dressing in a casual, but smart, outfit, when Camilla returns.

“You bastard!” she shouts. She appears overly fond of that particular word… “You fucked-up queer loser! You filthy, disgusting pervert!” Okay… Maybe her vocabulary does have quite a range, after all…

“Look, Camilla, if you’ve just come in here to insult me, there is really no point in continuing this conversation…”

She totally ignores this. “How dare you!” she rages. “Rutting with another man in our marital home!” The tears start flowing again… “I thought you loved me… Five years of happy marriage thrown away…” She sniffs into a hankie, her voice sounding strangled. “I came back again today because I began to think that I was just being silly about last night, but then, to find you in here with that black man…” She shudders. “It would have been bad enough if you were sleeping with another woman, but to catch you in the very act of sex with a male…” She shakes her head as if in disbelief. “I had no idea you were homosexual… It’s utterly humiliating…”

I almost feel sorry for the poor bitch. “Please… Camilla… You don’t understand…”

Camilla holds up her hand to silence me. She sounds calmer now. “Please don’t, Richard… Just listen to me for a change. I’ve packed a few things and will return for the bulk of my possessions tomorrow morning. As this house has been in your family for generations, I cannot really ask you to leave, so I am going instead. I will be staying with my cousin Joselyn in Bayswater, at least for the time being. Our marriage is, of course, over. I will be in communication with you shortly via my solicitor regarding the divorce petition. I trust that you will be gentlemanly enough to admit your adultery…”

I don’t really have a choice but to nod my head at this. She did catch us red-handed, after all…

“Thank you.” She looks at me again with sadness in her eyes. “I suppose that the only good thing that can be said about this mess is that at least we never had any children…” Then she turns on her high heels and clicks away down the landing. “Goodbye, Richard…”

I rest my forehead against the wall for a few moments. Although I’m not really a part of this marriage and never have been, for some reason, I still feel like a complete and utter bastard…

The sound of the front door slamming shut brings me back to reality. Where the fuck has Richard got to? I begin looking for him on this floor, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I then check every part of the house from the attics down to the basement with no luck. Richard has gone!

I then wonder if he’s maybe just outside in the street someplace. Perhaps I will be able to spot him like I did last night? I hurry down to the hall, but, just as I open the front door, a squad car draws up and three policemen get out. Two are wearing uniforms, but the third is in plain clothes. It is the latter who leads the way up the steps towards me.

“Mr Carlton-Jones?”


The man in plain clothes flashes a warrant card in my face. “Detective-Inspector Clive Fisher,” he says. “We’ve come to question a Mr Rashawn Charles who I’m informed is your employee, living with you at this address…”

I shake my head. “I’m very sorry, Detective-Inspector, but I’m afraid he is no longer here…”

The senior cop gives me a furious look that would curdle milk. “May we come in, please, Sir?” he asks coldly. “This case is a great deal more serious than we at first supposed…”

Curtis Mavour

Well… Who would have thought that I would get my bitch back so easily? Tracking Leon’s phone was only partially successful. We could not work out the exact house Rashawn was hiding in, but we were able to narrow his whereabouts down to a couple of blocks near Grosvenor Square. I took a chance and got Leon to drive me around the area this afternoon and, on our third slow circuit of the stately Georgian terraces, who should emerge from one of those big, posh, black, front doors, but the little man himself?

Rashawn seems overjoyed to see me and gets into the car without any fuss at all. He even claims to have turned a trick for me already and hands me the cash he says he earned. Leon immediately claims that the wallet and money are his and I hand them to him as compensation for his fucked-up mouth.

As we drive through Central London, heading east, I cross-question Rashawn about my GMH, but he has no idea what happened to it. I know he’s telling me the truth as he’s programmed to be completely incapable of lying to me. He doesn’t remember anything about being rescued from my lock-up and is vague about the house he came out of and its occupants. He says he was fucked by the man who lives there, but that’s about all he can tell me. He really is quite the simpleton now…

A few seconds later, he’s kneeling at my feet giving me a nice blow job. It’s at times like this I’m pleased the rear windows of my BMW are tinted black. There’s something very erotic about cruising along in the back seat of a car getting a nice oral service… Rashawn’s already a pretty good cocksucker and with even more practice, he’ll be one of the best. As we sweep down the Strand and into Fleet Street, I stare out at the crowds of people milling around on the pavements and smile. Rashawn is sure soon going to get a fuck of a lot of practice…

Rashawn Charles:

We’re sitting in the drawing room. I’ve offered the policemen a drink, but they’ve refused. The atmosphere is pretty tense. I know I’m in trouble because I promised to ensure that Rashawn would be available for questioning. They only allowed me to take him home because they thought that I was a fancy lawyer from an illustrious family and, in their view, I’ve totally failed. I can understand this; they feel let down by this establishment figure they trusted…

Detective-Inspector Fisher asks me how I came to employ Rashawn in the first place. I make up a story about how he was a tramp, down on his luck who I felt sorry for and offered a job to. All three of them look at me as though I’m a naïve idiot to have let someone I barely know into my beautiful house, packed so full of tempting objects to steal…

“Did your technicians manage to determine what drug Mr Charles had taken?” I ask, to try and steer the conversation away from the exact nature of my relationship with this ‘Jamaican person’.

Fisher nods gravely. “Indeed we did, Sir. It took much longer than usual to analyse the substance because it is a chemical that has only very recently been developed…”

“Is it a Class ‘A’ drug?”

Fisher shakes his head. “It soon will be, but it’s so new that it hasn’t even been placed on the list of proscribed dangerous substances as yet.” He smiles grimly. “At the present time, it isn’t actually even illegal…”

I can’t help feeling hugely relieved by this news. I had feared that Rashawn might be deported back to Jamaica as a drug-dealer if the stuff had turned out to be cocaine or crystal meth or something. He can only retain asylum status in this country if he keeps on the right side of the Law…

“The problem is that, in the wrong hands, this substance is so incredibly dangerous that we really need to know exactly where Mr Charles obtained it,” the Detective-Inspector continues. “It’s a powerful mind-altering chemical which is capable of permanently changing a person’s behaviour. Interpol has been alerted to the situation and they have classified the possible proliferation of this drug as a code red world emergency. They are already working to determine the source so they can attempt to shut it down.”

“I see…”

“So you understand how urgent it is that we question Mr Charles to find out where he obtained it…”

“Yes… I just wish I could help you, Detective-Inspector…”

They leave and, after I’ve seen them out, I return to pace up and down the drawing room, deep in thought. Of course, I know that the source of the drug is Curtis Mavour, a fact which I could easily have revealed to the police. Given the extent of Mavour’s criminal activities, I’m sure that his name is already well-known to the authorities…

So why didn’t I snitch on him?

The truth is that I daren’t incriminate Curtis Mavour before I track down Richard. I’m pretty sure that the poor deluded idiot has somehow returned to his ‘Master’, in which case, I not only have a very good idea where he is, but also a plan to get him out. If I’m going to rescue Richard for a second time, I need Curtis outside prison. Once Richard is safe, I will happily let the forces of law and order have their way with him.

I sigh and stare at my pale face in the large mirror hanging above the fireplace. I have more or less resigned myself to the fact that I’m going to be stuck in the body of this white man forever. I am pretty certain that this body-swap that Richard and I have gone through is permanent. So why bother rescuing him from the clutches of Curtis Mavour? I guess because Richard is inhabiting my old body and, in a strange way, he represents all that’s left of my old Jamaican self. I also have to admit that I’ve become quite fond of the silly damned fool…

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