Wavelength

TITLE: Wavelength
AUTHOR: NoHayRemedio aka Chauncey10
FANDOM/SHIP: Boardwalk Empire/various characters.
RATING: Very Mature for sexual situations, violence and language.
SUMMARY: Post-episode 1x03: Many people had their minds on sex and among other things.
DISCLAIMER: 'Boardwalk Empire' is owned by HBO, Leverage Management and Nelson Johnson and a few more illustrious people, whereas I'm not included anywhere on that list.
SPOILERS: Episodes 1x01 through 1x03. And maybe for future episodes. I wrote this before seeing episode 1x04 and it worked.
A/N: A series of micro-stories ranging from 100 to 250 words each. Various characters and POV's. This is first time I've written for this fandom. I know nothing except what I've seen on the first three episodes or what I've found doing research on the time via the internet.
WARNING: Take the rating very seriously and to those offended by sex and violence, DO NOT READ.
THANKS: To greta_garbo for requesting this fic. Inspired by “One Night” by cincoflex , a story in the CSI fandom. I recently read it and thought the basic premise would be perfect for this story. And to csigeekfan for the beta, even though she hasn't watched the show, she did correct my poor verb usage and my pitiful comma placement.


I.

With his head hung to his chest Jimmy Darmody had finally been lulled into fitful sleep by the gentle rocking of the train. In his disjointed dreams, he saw Angela spread out before him, naked, with her brownish tinted nipples hard and her sex glistening in the morning light on the bed they'd shared before he'd left for the war and when he blinked he watched a voyeuristic reel of Angela and the photographer, Dittrich, entwined together on the bed.

He jerked awake as the train came into a screeching halt in Youngstown, Ohio. He stood up and stretched his legs, the images still running in a neurological loop in his brain. Angela and another man; he supposed it shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. He'd left her now; he wasn't sure if he'd ever see her or his son again.

He hoped he could make a new start in Chicago.

II.

Nucky plunged in and out of Lucy's heat seeking his release. He was close when he was struck by an image of her nursing his child at her breast.

He wilted inside her.

“Nucky, baby, why'd ya stop?”

He rolled off of her and turned his back to the woman as she pattered on of inconsequential things. He wished she would just- “Shut the hell up.”

She had the indignity to act surprised before she quickly got up off of the bed then slamming the door to the bathroom behind her.

He took a deep breath and sighed.

III.

Nelson Van Alden had finished his dinner, and then looked at the woman sitting to his left, who had prepared the fulfilling and gratifying meal.

Rose's eyes were downcast, her body tight, in reserve, almost subservient in her posture.

His work and duty as a G-man had kept him away from home for several weeks and he knew it was his duty as a husband to inquire: “Shall we retire to the bedroom where I may be a dutiful husband and assume my conjugal rights?”

“As you wish,” her voice low and even.

“I wish,” he replied.

IV.

“Gillian?”

“Yes, Eddie?”

“Why are you sad tonight?” He used his singer's voice and asked in a tune she didn't recognize.

She sighed and looked at the famous singer who'd stayed an extra day in Atlantic City just to spend a little time with her. “I'm not really sad,” she again sighed as she felt the heft of him shift inside her.

“Am I making you unhappy?” He thrust harder and harder until his seed spilled forth into her.

“No.”

After he was finished and she had pretended to be, he continued to study the beautiful woman in his bed. “So, what's wrong?”

“I'm just worried about my son.”

“I didn't know you had a child, how old is he?”

She knew she couldn't tell him the truth so she told him her grandson's age instead of Jimmy's. Eddie Cantor would not understand a woman of her station having a child of 24, after-all she had a career as a showgirl and age did matter.

Eddie cooed into her ear, “I'll bet he looks just like you.”

She smiled and lied some more, which was the story of her life.

V.

Chalky White stared at the giant cross on top of the church, as the gorgeous light skinned black woman rubbed his cock between her fingers. The hand job was just what he needed after the events of the day.

The view from the Packard was marred by the continued deluge of rain. Chalky felt Jesus had turned his back on the young man who'd been hung in front of his business. And the way Nucky Thompson and his brother, the Sheriff, had handled the situation was atrocious.

He closed his eyes as his prick spewed and vowed vengeance upon those responsible for the death of his young protege.

VI.

A nod's as good as a wink and soon Eli Thompson was headed toward a bleak room in a whorehouse with a tall, slinky brunette.

He doesn't think about her body as he pounded into her, hard and furiously. He envisioned the brutal power he'd held when he covered the man's face with a pillow. Unfortunately he hadn't killed him, because the FBI pricks had shown up.

Killing was his niche in life. Afterward, he could live off of the endorphins from a kill for days, but today, he had to acquire them the old fashioned way: sex a hooker.

VII.

Margaret startled awake, afraid she'd awoken her sleeping children, but thankfully they slept on in ignorant bliss of the events of the past several weeks.

The recent widow got out of the bed and quietly made her way into the living room. She was embarrassed and deeply ashamed of the nocturnal dreams that had awoken her as she poured herself a glass of milk to calm her nerves. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, but the dream persisted.

The woman's body had been like a statue. Everything about her benefactor's 'friend' was perfect. From the woman's face down to her dainty toes and every thing in between, Lucy was a goddess. Margaret had dreamed of placing her hands on the woman's breasts as Mr. Enoch Thompson watched from the shadows. Margaret and Lucy had kissed bringing forth a gasp of intense pleasure from the esteemed Mr. Thompson.

In her dream, he soon joined them as the three of them committed more mortal sins than she cared to contemplate. All three bodies moved together erotically; skin, hot and slick, against more skin.

But everything she'd dreamed had been pleasurable as compared to the horrible couplings between herself and her recently departed husband, Hans.

Hans had regularly beat her and took her against her will. Margaret shuddered at the thought of his last beating which had caused her latest miscarriage. She knew Mr. Thompson would never treat her in such a manner, but she still hated him for his charity.

VIII.

The butler slipped out of the suite of the Ritz-Carlton. His boss was busy fucking that slut of a showgirl and he wanted to get as far away from it as possible.

The whore had the audacity to think she was his superior, he who had been trained in Berlin by some of the best and brightest dieners in the business. And Eddie Kessler knew his business. There was a hierarchy in the servant world and he'd finally achieved the highest rank of servitude.

His boss was an idiot and really well beneath him also, but the man made more money than God in this forsaken city by the sea.

Eddie pressed the button to the elevator and waited patiently for the car to arrive.

When the door was opened by the liftman, Eddie smiled at the uniformed man with slightly receding blond hair.

“Going down?” The elevator man questioned.

“No, sir. But you are.”

When the elevator doors closed, the lift stayed in place as the elevator operator skillfully elevated Eddie's cock.

IX.

The rain beat hard against the hotel window as Arnold Rothstein downed the dregs of his coffee in a quick motion. It was times such as these he wished he weren't a teetotaler.

He did hope for a repeal of the Volstead Act, but could see the benefits of bootlegging. His sojourn into that world might turn into a profitable experience, but he'd definitely been short-changed in his recent dealing with the mobster out of Atlantic City.

Rothstein didn't like being short end of the stick. He needed to replace the money he'd lost to Thompson.

The twenty-something blonde sidled into his peripheral vision. She was nude as he'd ordered. Her body was adequate for his needs and he'd used her on numerous occasions.

A sudden idea flitted through his brain.

“Does your brother still play for the Chicago White Sox?” He inquired without preamble.

“Yes, he starts spring training in March.” She placed her hand on his chest, then simply unbuttoned his collar.

“I have an idea, maybe you can make it come to fruition.” His breath hitched as her hand skirted over the front of his trousers.

“I'm sure I can make it come.”

X.

In the same hotel several floors away, 'Lucky' Luciano sat drinking uncut Scotch and smoking 'Lucky Strikes' as the rain belted against his window. It truly was a dark and stormy night.

He was alone and his dick hurt still like hell. Gonorrhea wasn't for pussies and he was determined to kill the whore who'd given it to him and he would when his henchmen returned with her.

But for the time being, Luciano settled for getting drunk.

His mind took him back to Sicily. His family had emigrated to the United States when he was ten years old. He sorely missed 'the Old Country'. But it had become little more than a myth in his memory. He believed in the old Mafia rhetorics: 'honor', 'tradition', and 'respect'.

'Lucky' was also a closet romantic and as his eyes closed due to the sedative effects of the liquor , he envisioned his perfect woman standing before him; he'd named his fantasy “Igea”, after a Greek girl he'd befriended as a child.

His musings were interrupted by a knock on his door. Obviously, the whore had been found and he checked his revolver and headed to adjudicate her arrival in hell.

XI.

Alphonse Gabriel “Al” Capone was having sex with a couple of imported hookers from New York when he slapped one of them on the ass, hard, as he bit viciously into the others nipple.

“Hey, that hurts, 'Scarface',” the woman whose tit was bleeding profusely cried.

The other girl looked on in sympathy.

“Don't call me that, you fucking whore,” he screamed.

She backed away from him on the bed, and not knowing when to leave well enough alone, she shouted, “I remember hearing 'bout it: Frank Gallucio did it 'cause you insulted his sister.”

“That's a lie. Damn 'heinnie' gave it to me with a bayonet in 'the Great War'. I got a Purple Heart for it,” he growled. He was enraged and his former hard-on had completely gone flaccid.

“And I heard you stole the Purple Heart from Aldo Correro after you knifed him for stealing money from your capo,” the other hooker piped in taking up for her friend.

Capone was known for his ruthless temper and the two hookers bore the brunt of his aggression. He bludgeoned them both to death with the nearest weapon of destruction: a crank telephone.

XII.

The bell clanged and clanged through the silence of the night until the chamber maid, Lou-Ann, burst into the ornate bedroom of the Commodore.

“When you hear this bell, you get your ass in here,” he bellowed. “Fast!”

“Yes, sir,” she bowed and headed to the chamber pot to empty it. But the sound of his voice stopped her mid-stride.

“That's not why I called you,” the Commodore sighed and pulled the elaborate quilted covers off his naked body. His cock stood proud, straight up against gravity.

“I ain't seen that in a good long while, Commodore,” Lou-Ann almost purred with a shy smile.

“Well, get over here and do something about it, bitch.”

She shifted her black dress up and then climbed on him, impaling herself onto him. There were no further words exchanged between them as she proceeded to drain him completely.

THE END

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