Doctor Karma’s Cosmic Emporium: Part 8

By M. Greene published February 10, 2019
mgreene70@yahoo.com
Summary

The end of the story.

Doctor Karma’s Cosmic Emporium

Part 8

Rashawn Charles:

I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening getting to grips with Richard’s financial situation. His study is near the drawing room and I go through all of his neatly filed papers. Judging from various bank statements, he has three accounts altogether; a savings account, a shared account with Camilla and one into which his earnings go and from which various direct debits are paid. Richard is a very rich man indeed. He has over a hundred-thousand pounds saved up and his monthly income after tax is in excess of twenty thousand. This means he earns a net amount of nearly a quarter of a million a year. About half of this fortune comes from his legal work and the rest from his fat investment portfolio. In addition to this, he inherited this magnificent house from his parents and owns it outright.

Unfortunately, Richard’s outgoings are pretty large too. He has to pay his Chambers five thousand a month for the rental on the building and staff wages. An allowance of another five grand a month is also paid into the joint account with Camilla. Judging by the statements, she is the only person who uses this account as most of the transactions are purchases from various women’s clothes stores. Household bills come to a further two thousand a month and the Cook gets paid twenty-four thousand pounds a year.

In the late afternoon, Amanda, Richard’s secretary, rings again with a whole list of worries and complaints from colleagues, judges and the like. I make an executive decision to solve Richard’s absence from work by saying that I am taking a year’s sabbatical leave. From the information I’ve gleaned, Richard is part of a group of self-employed barristers who rent their office building and pay for their staff between them, so I know that Amanda will not be out of a job. She’s pretty shocked at the news and says that I will have to confirm my decision in writing to the Head of Chambers, whoever that is, but there’s nothing she can really say and eventually, she terminates the call.

I think it’s the best thing for Richard in the short term. If, somehow, we do manage to swap our bodies back, he will be able to take up his career again after only a few months. I think that such a return to normality is very unlikely, but I don’t want to burn all his bridges…

I locate his passport and decide to visit his bank tomorrow with this ID to tell them that I have forgotten all my pin numbers and passwords. This will be hard for them to take, but with such solid proof of identity, they will have no choice but to reset everything. Once I have access to Richard’s money, I will be able to start making economies to limit the damage losing half his income will inevitably cause. Now that Camilla has left, I should probably give the cook notice to quit. I’m quite good in the kitchen, so I won’t really need her part-time services at £500 a week. As for Camilla’s allowance, I won’t make any changes. I feel a bit sorry for the stuck-up bitch, so decide she can keep her pin-money…

Richard Carlton-Jones:

I meet the old man at the door of the flat and take him straight into my little bedroom. He’s around sixty, real fat and hairy with a huge beer belly. He wants to get sucked and I tell him it will be £100. He agrees to the price, so I sink down to my knees and undo his pants. He’s real smelly up close, but I don’t give a fuck. He’s a man… My mouth is already watering as I close my thick lips around his fat dick. I start sucking and he quickly gets hard. I’m real hard too; I so love sucking cock…

“Good whore…” he murmurs, grabbing my locks in his puffy fist and using them to pull my head deeper on his dick. “I love your fat, cock-sucking lips…”

I gag a little, but I’m digging the sex so much, I don’t care. It’s what I live for… After a few more minutes of me slobbering over his junk, I feel his mess shooting over my tongue. Hmm… I love the taste of spunk… The old man withdraws his dick from my mouth with a plop and aims the last spurts of his slime over my upturned face. Streaks of pearl spatter my brown cheeks, forehead, nose and chin. I lick up as much of the cooling jelly as I can reach and smack my lips.

The man throws some cash down on the floor next to me, does up his pants and walks away. I quickly count the notes. Good… Daddy’s money is all here…

The new phone Master gave me pings again. I check the text message. Daddy is telling me to get ready for a new client who will arrive in ten minutes…

Rashawn Charles:

The bank interview takes most of the morning, but I manage to get everything changed the way I want. I draw out £500 and treat myself to a new haircut at an expensive local barbershop. I have the sides shaved, leaving the top a little longer. Admiring myself in the mirror, I think it makes me look a lot younger and less preppy than I did before.

After a light lunch in a nearby café, I return home and change out of the suit I wore to impress the bank people into a more practical casual outfit. I put on a stout leather jacket, pick up Jermaine’s pistol and hail a cab to the East End. It’s time to rescue Richard from the evil clutches of Curtis Mavour…

Curtis lives in an expensive apartment block in one of the newly gentrified parts of Tower Hamlets. Having lived there myself for a few weeks I know exactly where it is, but this is not my destination today. A few blocks away from his actual home is the run-down tower block where he sub-lets another large apartment for his collection of male whores. For all I know, he may have a female-staffed version somewhere as well, but I only know the gay whorehouse I worked in for a while.

It’s on the second floor of eleven, so I don’t bother with the lift, which always stinks of piss anyway, and make my way up the stairs. Flat thirty-one is the fourth one on the left of a dingy, narrow corridor, the walls of which are scrawled with graffiti. I know the bell is out of order, so I use the cheap knocker to rap on the door instead.

A young white guy cracks the door open a fraction. “Yeah?”

“I’m here on business,” I say. “I want to fuck the new Jamaican guy Curtis found…”

At the mention of his Master’s name, he undoes the chain and lets me step inside. The tiny hallway stinks of stale marijuana and male sweat. The guy is only about nineteen and has a trace of last night’s old makeup on his pale features. He obviously likes the look of me because he runs a hand down my arm and asks if I want to fuck him instead.

I shake my head. “No – I only like black pussy – it has to be the Jamaican…”

White boy seems rather annoyed by this rejection of his charms. “He’s with someone right now,” he says sulkily, sparking up a cigarette. “You’ll just have to wait…”

A few seconds after he says this, one of the interior doors opens and a middle-aged Asian man walks into the hall, adjusting his clothes. He’s an ugly looking fucker with a pock-marked face, and rude with it, almost pushing me and the white boy out of the way as he strides towards the front door. I catch sight of Richard standing in the bedroom he’s just vacated. I quickly slip inside and close the door behind me.

“Hiya,” I say. “How are you?”

The room is tiny and sparsely furnished with only a single bed and a metal locker. A faded and ragged piece of cloth has been nailed over the window to form a rudimentary curtain. The confined space reeks of sex.

“Yuh again,” Richard says, a touch of distain in his tone. “Yuh get to pay mi dis time…”

I take four fifties out of my jacket pocket and fan them in front of his face. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll pay you for your work…”

“Yuh wa mi to suck yuh or yuh wa fi fuck me?”

“Maybe later,” I say. “Right now, I just want to talk…”

Richard looks disappointed. “Wah yuh wa fi chat about?”

“Does the name ‘Richard Carlton-Jones’ mean anything to you?”

Richard looks completely blank. “Nah.” He says at last.

“What is your name?”

“Masta calls mi Rashawn…”

“Do you remember anything at all about your life before you met your Master?”

He thinks for a moment and then shakes his head. “Nah, mon…”

“Tell me honestly, Rashawn… Are you really happy here?”

“Yea…”

“Why are you happy?”

He grins at this, his bright teeth lighting up the drab room. “Mi get fi serve mi Masta an fuck an suck mens…”

It’s at this point that I realise it’s totally hopeless. Even if I somehow convince him to leave this place with me, he will only come crawling back. Richard Carlton-Jones is as good as dead. Only this male whore named Rashawn remains…

“Okay, Rashawn…” I hand him fifty pounds and the small card I wrote my telephone number on before I left the house. “If things change and you ever feel unhappy, please call me…”

Rashawn nods, takes the money and card and sticks them in the back pocket of his jeans.

I turn towards the door.

“Yuh nuh wa sex wid mi?”

I shake my head. “Not today, Rashawn, thank you. Goodbye…”

As soon as I’m out of that sordid flat, I take a deep breath of air. I guess the only thing to do now is to somehow try and get on with this new life I have…

I walk slowly towards the Mile End Road where I’m sure I will be able to pick up a cab to take me home. I think about how I need to take ownership of this new body I inhabit. Up until now, I’ve seen my new white persona as something temporary, but I now realise that this is probably going to be me forever. Perhaps I should get my ears pierced? When I was Rashawn I wore earrings and I rather miss them. Yes; that’s a definite. I think I’ll get them done this afternoon. Then, after that, maybe a tattoo? When I was Rashawn I had quite a few and I like body ink so long as it’s tasteful and well-executed. What should I get done and where? Yesterday, when I was looking through the documents in the study, I noticed that all the notepaper had a family crest on it. The Carlton-Jones coat of arms consists of a red shield containing a gold castle supported by two grey dolphins. Perhaps I could get this inked onto my right arm? It will look quite classy. And, after all, why shouldn’t I advertise my own family heritage?

Doctor Karma’s Cosmic Emporium: The City of London, England.

We watch the new Richard Carlton-Jones hail a black London cab and drive west towards his ten million pound Mayfair house. Harmony agitates the liquid in the scrying pool and we are back in the run-down council flat once again. The new Deshawn Charles is entertaining another customer; his sixth of the day. This particular gentleman has splashed out £200 for full anal intercourse. We watch Dashawn’s body being pounded from behind for a few seconds before I splash the image away myself. I’ve seen quite enough…

“I take it our job is done and that you consider that our client has been sufficiently punished?”

Harmony nods his purple head.

I sigh. “You Furies are terrible creatures when you get angry,” I observe.

Harmony smiles.

A sudden thought strikes me. “What about that Curtis Mavour fellow? Surely he’s evil enough to attract our attentions. Why don’t we punish him?” Harmony swirls the liquid around again and we watch as Mavour, looking very handsome in an expensive made-to-measure suit, steps out of an exclusive London nightclub with an equally beautiful young woman on his arm. A chauffeur-driven limousine is parked right outside the entrance waiting for them. Mavour helps his girlfriend into the vehicle and walks around the back to get in the other side. Suddenly, another car, driving recklessly fast, speeds down the street. Two young men are hanging out of the windows holding automatic weapons. There is an intense burst of gunfire and Curtis crumples onto the pavement, his body riddled by multiple bullets. He lies dead in the gutter, his sightless eyes staring up at the stars.

“When will this happen?” I ask.

“About three weeks hence, Master.”

“And what will happen to poor Rashawn after that?”

The scrying bowl image switches to the dining room of Richard Carlton-Jones’ smart Mayfair home. It is a bright sunny day in March. The young owner is sitting down to his lunch, wearing only a vest and a pair of tracksuit bottoms. He has been working out in his home gym and his pale skin gleams with sweat. A pair of small gold earrings and a heraldic tattoo on his muscular right bicep have been added since last we saw him.

The door opens and a smartly dressed servant enters the room carrying a tray. His brown skin glows with health and he’s beautifully turned out in an immaculate butler’s uniform. He crosses over to his Master and places a plate covered with a silver dome-shaped lid in front of him.

Richard lifts the silver lid and places it to one side. Trapped steam rises from the plate. “I say! Lamb chops! My absolute favourite! Well done, Charles!” Rashawn Charles smiles and bows his head. “Mi aim to please sah…” he says, proudly but respectfully…

The waters in the bowl seethe once again, then become blank and still.

I grunt with satisfaction. “All’s well that ends well, then,” I say. “I’m glad you showed some mercy to the poor soul in the end…”

“Where to next, Master?” Harmony asks. “I’m getting bored with London…”

I chuckle. “I think that we should perhaps pay a visit to New York in the United States. I’m fairly certain there are plenty of deserving clients residing there…”

Author’s note: Well that’s it, everyone. I had originally planned a slightly longer story, or even a series based on this theme, but the response to this has been rather muted, so I’m going to wrap it up here. Thanks to those who did leave encouraging comments. I’m happy a few of you enjoyed it.

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