4 comments/ 92913 views/ 2 favorites A Clockwork Orange: Late Show By: d_r_o_o_g_i_e “Stanley Kubrick’s dystopian masterpiece – Beethoven, ultraviolence and the old in-out in-out” was how it was advertised. The midnight showing had definitely attracted quite a crowd. Everyone was in an excited mood, chatting with their friends, looking forward to the film. There was, Lara noticed, a preponderance of men. Quite a few of them wore their ‘droog platties’. Enthusiasts who had dressed up for the occasion. White trousers and braces, white shirts, black bowler hats and combat boots. Many of them had gone to the trouble of wearing matching white ‘jellymolds’- that strange item, something like a medieval codpiece, that the droogs wore in the film, simultaneously protecting and drawing the eye to their groins. Lara looked around again. A handful of the ‘droogs’ she noticed were women. Besides them, there were three or four girls in a sort of early seventies style – long straight hair, long dresses pulled tight at the waist with a broad belt, and black knee boots. Not quite dressed in character, dressed more in the spirit of the film. Lara couldn’t see anyone else dressed as she was – red shoes with a gold buckle, red knee stockings, a broad elasticated belt and a one piece flared red pyjama suit. Looking at her, as she flicked back her shoulder length auburn hair, with that wicked grin he had that reminded her so much of Alex, Calum whispered in her ear. ‘You should see yourself. You are nothing short of iconic. You’re a real Mrs Alexander’. It had been Calum’s ides that the two of them should come dressed in character. Inevitably, he was Alex, not through a lack of imagination, but through that sense of identification that was so clearly on display now, where the foyer held another twenty or thirty more little Alexander De Larges. His costume had been easy, even the jellymold, which was the ‘box’ from his old cricketing gear. Only the bowler had proved hard to obtain, but he’d found one for £5 in a charity shop. She could not imagine where he managed to get hold of her red pyjama suit. ‘There’ll be lots of people there dressed the part’ he’d assured her. ‘Besides, you’re sure to be the centre of attention, and you know how much you like that.’ What was it he’d said about Adrienne Corri, the actress who played Mrs Alexander? That was it. She’d stiffened more cocks than Britney Spears and Christina Aguillera put together. You wouldn’t find a man in the audience, he’s laughed, who hadn’t pulled out his cock and wanked himself stupid to that scene, with the red pyjama suited devotchka being snip, snip, snip, stripped and getting the old in-out in-out from Alex and his droogs. ‘Viddy well, little sister. Viddy well’, Calum whispered to her. A cold shiver of excitement ran down her body. Lara looked again and became aware of heads turning towards her, conversations stopping in mid sentence. She noticed the ‘droogs’ grinning to each other, canes being twirled, and a couple of them started doing funny little dance steps. From somewhere behind her, a voice started to sing, “I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain….”, and then other voices took it up. “I’ve a smile on my face, and I’m ready for love….”. 2 The film was marvellous, absolutely astonishing, even better than she had imagined. Lara had seen it at home on DVD many times, but never in the cinema. She leaned back and revelled in it, totally absorbed in the world of A Clockwork Orange. Sliding in, through the opening images, Alex smiling at the camera, raising his glass, wicked and inviting, the baroque strains of Purcell’s stately ‘Ode for Queen Mary’ distorted by a synthesizer into the measured promise of strange things to come. Then ‘her’ scene was on the screen, the one she had played over and over again on the DVD, the one she had fantasised about: ‘the surprise visit’. The writer’s wife, Mrs Alexander, dressed exactly as she was now, in that iconic red pyjama suit, answering the door, the look of sudden realisation on her face, then the rape. Alex singing and dancing and laughing with his droogs as he snipped her clothes from her in front of her husband, and displayed her naked to his droogs. The way he utterly possessed her, the pure physicality of it, devoid of any vestige of what the world calls love or pity, the look of pure joy on Alex’s face as he took his pleasure, plunging away with his stiff cock without conscience or thought for anything except his own desires and the pleasures of the moment. And the woman, Mrs Alexander - her face filled with fear and then a different emotion, something complex that lies below words and thought, as though she has a realisation that this is not just some brutal fucking by a gang of louts, but that, for Alex, life is one long performance, or a ritual whose sole aim is to celebrate ones own joy in living, of the amoral delight in giving oneself over to one’s desires, whatever they may be and however you want to gratify them. And Mrs Alexander too has her appointed role in that performance, that she is undergoing a change, a cruel and beautiful transformation, and for one brief hour of her life she becomes, not the loving wife of some bourgeois academic, but, the object of Alex’s glorious and unrelenting desire, swept up and savagely fucked, like some sacrificial figure, without who there could be no ceremony. The film seemed all too short to Lara. The final scene was upon her all too quickly. Alex smiling and giving a ‘thumbs-up’ to the audience, the fellow travellers on his journey, his friends, his accomplices, in short, his ‘droogs’. Then the credits began. A bright red screen, and as the houselights came slowly up, the voice of Gene Kelly rang out, cheerful and innocent, without a care in the world, ‘I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain….’ 3 Lara had been aware of it from the moment the film ended. As she walked up the central aisle to the strains of ‘Singin in the Rain’, she had seen the excited looks, heard the eager murmurs spreading through the assembled droogs. Now, in the foyer, Lara felt herself go cold, and shiver with a mixture of fear and excitement. Standing there in that red pyjama suit, she felt herself to be the embodiment of the transgressive, a representation of the desire for disorder and a celebration of the joys of complete amorality, devoid of the restraining hand of conscience or consequences. Calum had put on his mask. That half comic half sinister mask with the exaggerated phallic nose, bristling with import, that Alex wore during the surprise visit. She noticed that others too, were sporting them, turning them into smiling copies of their hero, Alex. She could hardly tell Calum apart from them. The foyer seemed to be awash with Alex De Larges. “Wait here” said Calum quietly in Lara’s ear, leaving her standing by a large photo of Stanley Kubrick, camera in hand, focussing on Alex as he snipped at Adrienne Corri’s pyjama suit. Calum moved into the ranks of droogs, smiling and whispering to them as he disappeared into their midst. There seemed to be a still moment, a moment when everyone stopped, and then, like a tide turning, the ‘droogs’ started to move slowly towards Lara, grinning and laughing to themselves. She could hear them singing softly under their breath, ‘I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain….’, then chaotic scraps of the song “….I’ve a smile on my face…. up above…..the sun’s in my heart, and I’m ready for love”. “Get ready for love!” shouted a voice, echoing the line that the crowd was singing, a joyful cry, a cry full of brutish desire, an echo of Dim’s mocking promise to the writer’s wife. The ‘droogs’ moved in on her, slowly advancing, their eyes running up and down her body, greedily drinking her in. This had been a night to indulge their dreams and desires. A midnight showing. The chance for once to dress up, to assume the character and absorb the wickedly joyful soul of their hero; to indulge their dark imaginings. Lara quickly looked around for Calum, scanning the oncoming group, but in this masked crowd in white, all alike in that familiar uniform of the droogs, it was impossible to make him out. She felt a hand touch her, touching and stroking her arse. She turned her head and looking over her shoulder met the greedy lust filled eyes of a masked droog. Breaking into a broad grin, the droog ran his fingers over her arse. Other hands reached out, touching her thighs, her arms, her hair, her tits, inquisitive, eager fingers, probing, stroking, squeezing. It excited her and frightened her at the same time. She thought of all these men with just one thought on their minds, to ram their cocks in her and fuck her senseless. Suddenly, Lara was lifted up and swung over a shoulder. She found herself being carried like this, the centre of attention, at the head of a procession. Behind her a laughing, cheering, singing crowd of droogs was following, like a medieval carnival, celebrating its nights of misrule. Past the posters and the displays, past a sign that said “A Clockwork Orange – Stanley Kubrick’s Masterpiece. A stylish and witty black comedy. A dazzling vision of the future!” Past a photograph of Alex, smiling and raising his glass to the mundane world. Past a photograph of Adrienne Corri, mouth taped and holes cut in her pyjama suit to expose her tits, framed by Alex and Dim, like the centre figure in a triptych. Then she was outside in the darkness of the car park. She heard a shout, the echo of a line from the film, “Right lads. Get her clothes off”. She was swung down of the shoulder and onto her feet, held tightly, her arms were locked behind her back. From somewhere, a pair of scissors appeared. Amidst the laughing and shouting, another cheerful chaotic chorus of ‘Singing in the Rain’ started up. She felt the pyjama suit being stretched, and two perfect round holes were cut in her pyjama suit, her tits poking out like a pair of unblinking eyes, cooly surveying the assembled droogs. “A real horrorshow pair of groodies, my brothers!” cried the droog, stepping back and showing off her tits to the laughing crowd. Lara looked beyond the immediate circle and noticed that others had followed them all out. A group of lads, who could not have been more that sixteen, were pointing at Lara and laughing with their girlfriends. The young women in seventies clothes were there, with huge astonished smiles on their faces. Small groups of men and women were staring wide eyed at Lara. Even a couple of the cinema staff had followed them out. Her belt was unfastened and tossed aside. From behind a voice whispered in her ear, “Ready for love?” That voice. It was muffled and distorted, and barely audible over the sound of the crowd. Was it Calum? She turned her head, but was again met with the unfathomable gaze of a masked face. Then her head swung backwards as the grip on her arms was rudely tightened and the droog in front of her dropped to his knees. She heard the snip snip snip sound of the scissors cutting through the material and then felt the cold touch of the blade going up her right leg, past her knees, slowly inching along her thighs and then between her tits. The sleeves of the red pyjama suit were pulled down her arms and over her hands, freeing her for one brief second before her wrists were seized and held tight. She felt something hard and unfamiliar press against her arse. The mask, she realised. Then from behind, she felt kisses on the small of her back, then her buttocks. Her left leg was lifted up and the remnant of the pyjama suit were pulled off, and thrown into the cheering crowd. While the one behind began to lick and tease and explore her arse hole with his tongue, the one in front stepped back, displaying her naked body to the crowd. Lara felt one final kiss on her arse and from behind that familiar excited voice, louder this time, so that the whole crowd could hear, “Get ready for love”. Then, scissors discarded, arms triumphantly aloft, trousers round his ankles, advancing with his huge stiff cock at the ready, the droog in front of her shouted out to the crowd: “Viddy well, my brothers. Viddy well”. A Clockwork Orange: Late Show Ch. 02 A wickedly gleeful atmosphere prevailed among the enthusiastic crowd of white clothed malchicks. It seemed to Lara that more than half of them were sporting masks. That half comic, half sinister mask that Alex had donned in the film for his surprise visit. She thought how like a masked ball on a night of Carnival it all looked, or like a performance by the Comedia Del Arte. Yet another chorus of ‘Singing in the Rain’ struck up, the celebratory anthem of droogs everywhere. ‘I’m laughing at clouds So dark up above The sun’s in my heart And I’m ready for love…..’ Ready for love? It’s now or never, she thought, staring out at the mass of comical noses, making the droogs look like a crowd of unruly laughing Pinocchios, rowdy with phallic intent, the long rubber shafts bouncing exaggeratedly up and down in time to their rough music. All that touching and stroking, being swung over the white shirted shoulder, her arse and tits groped and squeezed as she was carried outside, before being stripped and cheerfully displayed to the crowd, had left Lara in an overexcited state, all hot and bothered was how she thought of it. In front of her, the malchick, trousers at half mast, raised his arms exultantly in the air, making his huge erect cock stand out even more. Making a studied bow, he turned to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd. His face broke into a broad grin beneath his mask. He seemed to Lara the very image of Alex De Large. She felt a transformation starting to take place in her mind, feeling no longer simply the Lara who had come to see a film. With baited breath she waited, the devotchka stripped before her droogs, the bride stripped bare before her lovers, most definitely ‘ready for love’. He rudely seized the cheeks of her arse, and drove his cock into her, fucking her with a will, vigorously plunging away. Lara moaned. Her arms tightly locked behind her back, Lara found herself arching backwards, into the shoulders of the droog behind her, who had dropped to his knees and was nibbling the and kissing the backs of her thighs and arse again. The gusto with which she was bring fucked took Lara by surprise. “This is what it means” she thought “This is how Alex does it, how he takes the devotchka. Fucking her for his own amusement. Pleasuring himself in her cunt. Giving her the old in-out in-out, real savage”. He slowed down a little, and she started to grind her thighs against him, her arse squirming against the lips and tongue of the kneeling droog behind her. The crowd enjoying the spectacle of Lara, writhing and wriggling on the end of the malchick’s cock gave an a appreciative roar. Their applause caught her attention. Already, three or four of them had lowered their white trousers, and were stroking their cocks, working them up and down, anticipating the moment when they would take their turn with her. Coolly appraising them, these Alex worshipers, these young nadsats desperate to live out that moment in the film, to fuck her, Lara knew herself to be the naked helpless willing embodiment of their transgressive desires. It’s a performance, thought Lara. He’s not just fucking me. He’s putting on a performance for the crowd. Casting the two of them in this spectacle. With herself as the star. Then she felt the cock inside her tense and spurt, depositing glob after glob of its thick creamy load inside her cunt. With a great moan and sigh, the droog pulled out himself out of her, still half erect and smeared in their juices, turning to display him now softening member to the crowd. “Right my brothers” he shouted with a broad grin. “Who’s next?” Up stepped another, attired in the white uniform and black bowler of the droogs, hardly distinguishable from the one who had just finished. Barely able to contain the ferocity of his desire, the next droog scampered up and began fucking her. The strangeness and excitement of it all overwhelmed Lara. She had allowed her imagination to play with this scene often enough. Answering the door, opening the door just a fraction, peering out into the darkness exchanging a few words with the personable young man outside, and then Alex bursting in. Her red pyjama suit sliced away and then being fucked, savagely, deliriously fucked by Alex. Devoid of care or thought, just the greedy satisfaction of pure physical lust. Now it was all real – her dark imaginings realised at last. It wasn’t until the third malchick went into it, laughing and smecking away to himself, and waving to his droogs, that Lara came. She could feel herself cumming, desire and passion fusing the real and the longed for into a newly imagined whole, she cried out “Fuck me. Give it to me Alex. Give it to me real savage. The old in-out in-out, Alex . Make me cum.” A fresh wave of brutish enthusiasm swept through the crowd. At first Lara thought they were cheering on the lusty malchick who was plunging away with renewed vigour, as they had done before. But she realised that this time it was her they were cheering, encouraging and applauding her, saluting her readiness, no, more than that, the complete abandon with which she desired to be fucked by each and every one of them in turn. As he pulled out of her, Lara stumbled backwards, astonished by the intensity of her orgasm. Behind her the droog steadied her, keeping her arms fast behind her. “There’s plenty more to come yet, my malenky devotchka” he whispered in her ear. As the next in line scuttled up to take his turn, trousers around his ankles, Lara glancedinto the gloom of the car park. Beyond the close circle of the droogs, she could just make out the girls in the seventies costumes. The blonde was up against a wall, with another Alex clone pressed up against her, his naked quivering buttocks flashing white in the night air, hands underneath her skirt, lifting it over her waist. Her friend, a dark haired girl in the knee length purple dress, gathered at the waist with a broad belt, squatted before another young malchick in his white platties, her hands and mouth hollow cheeked around his erect cock, wanking and sucking him for all she was worth. She could just glimpse in the darkness the other two devotchkas entangled with a pair of plunging malchicks. Glancing round again, Lara saw two of the girls who had come indulging their dreams, dressed in the iconic Clockwork Orange uniform, white trousers and shirt, black bowler hat and boots. The first of them was in the throes of passion. Her trousers were tumbled down around her ankles, her shirt unbuttoned, her huge tits bouncing up and down, as two malchicks plunged lustily away at her from front and back, gorging on the squirming filling in their slutty sandwich. Only the black bowler hat, perched precariously on her head enabled Lara to identify her as the long blonde haired female Alex, who she had seen in the foyer. The other, still wearing her shirt and bowler, but very little else, was leaning face down over the bonnet of a car, taking slow hard strokes of cock from behind, from a horny young malchick, whilst a couple of his droogs watched and waited with a feral air. Wherever Lara looked, it seemed that lusty young malchicks were performing the old in-out in-out on skittish young devotchkas. Lara felt as though they were all bound together, that all of them had all infused this night with their desires, that they were all performers in some unbridled thing, something hedonistic and amoral. As though in some medieval carnival, all laws and conventions turned upside down and they were governed by riot and misrule and unrestrained desire, with Alex De Large as their droog and leader, their presiding spirit. Surrounded by the droogs, stripped naked, arms tightly held behind her back, exposed and ready to be fucked by them all, she felt herself to be the star of the night. Mrs Alexander. It was her role. The one she chose. To be the partner in turn of each of these droogs in this theatre of lust. Each person here, she thought, has made this night into a performance, has cast themselves in the starring role in their own drama. But without her there could be no performance, without her there was nothing. She was the devotchka who bound them all together in this transgressive celebration. Dancing to her tune, the droogs and devotchkas were performing their black comic parody of love. Stripped of it’s trappings of soft words and thoughts of romantic love the one and only law was to fuck. The laughing and cheering, the singing, the smiling faces with their phallic masks, the whole atmosphere of carnival and nights of disorder. She was the star, the queen of the night, the mistress of misrule….This was her role, and she gloried in it. In her head scraps of nadsat, the patois of the droogs mingled with half formed thoughts. Droog after droog stepped up and took his turn with her, emptying their yarbles into her before giving way to the next. Getting the old the old in-out in-out. A real horroshow fucking. The malchicks plunging away like bezoomey. She had no idea how many of them, but she must have her education, with a tribe of molodoy Alexander De Larges as teacher. Ten? Fifteen? Twenty? Zamechat….... choodesnoy…….. heavenly bliss. Time and sensation fused into a sort of eternal present. She came again and again, barely aware of the cheers each time she moaned and shouted to the crowd. “Yes. Fuck me. All of you. I want you all. My droogs. My lovely wonderful Alex De Larges.”