Chapter 10
Back in the jail, a revolt was brewing in the women's cell. Kitty had decided she had enough material to win the Pulitzer Prize if she could just get back to her newspaper and write the story ripping the lid off the steaming cauldron that was Gila Flats. Promising to share the glory with the others, she had Sheila, Brenda, Gloria and Jenny ready to roll.
The five of them were so wrapped up in plotting their escape that they were hardly interested in my experiences in the hole. So heady were they in their plan that they seemed to pay no heed to the fact that I had just been severely punished for trying the same thing.
I tried to get them to listen to me, to tell them that the risk wasn't worth it, but they weren't having any. The dynamic Kitty had them too enraged up. All of them were thinking of themselves as heroines with their pictures in the paper. Undoubtedly there were fantasies of talk-show appearances.
Finally I gave up. Slumping on a bunk in a corner, I silently listened to them set their own trap.
Their plan was straight out of an old movie. Kitty had carved a bar of soap into a facsimile of a pistol. She was going to stick it through the bars into the guard's ribs when he came with dinner.
The guard was Charlie Hatfield, one of the cops who'd originally arrested me. When he came with the food I knew him well enough to realize that he was acting cutesy because he thought he could knock himself off a little extracurricular pussy.
Since Charlie was busily preening, he walked right into the girl's trap. The greasy food splattered like vomit to the floor as the soap-gun barrel suddenly pressed through the bars against his ribs.
"If you make one false move, I'll blow you to hell," Kitty snarled. "Now, slowly, very slowly, hand over your keys."
He was too much of a coward to defy her. The keys were hers. So far the soap gun was as effective as a real one.
By the time Charlie found out he had been tricked, Kitty and the others were out of the cell and a real gun had replaced the crude copy-his own. Its butt was used to smack him against the back of the head and knock him cold.
Armed with a .38-special to bolster their soaring confidence, the five women rushed toward the cellblock's exit. As they triggered the electronic door to the outside, I looked away. I knew they had no chance, and didn't want any part of their downfall.
"Aren't you coming?" one of them noticed my absence and called back to me.
"I can't do it," I croaked. Then I wished them good luck, knowing they wouldn't get any.
Actually they got further than I anticipated. They shot up the administrative offices of the jail, getting the drop on everyone so they could run outside and steal themselves a police cruiser.
Turning on the siren to clear the way, they laid rubber out of town. The screeching of their tires filled the desert air like the screeching of some giant, agonized bird.
Their plan was to make it to the highway where they would go for broke. Even though their progress so far was exciting, I gave them no chance.
I had to wait longer for my pessimistic prediction to come true than I'd expected, but I suppose Uncle Roy was playing with them a little. He liked to let women twist in the wind before he closed the trap on them.
After a few minutes the siren was too far away to hear. However, the subsequent crash and the barrage of gunfire weren't. The violence of the end of the chase carried all the way back to the jail. Later I found out that there'd been a roadblock about a mile from the turn-off to the main highway. Uncle Roy had radioed ahead to some of his men he always had patrolling the perimeter of Gila Flats. He'd made his domain escape-proof a long time ago.
The next time I saw Kitty, Sheila and Brenda, they were encased in plastic bags. They were dead.
I later learned from Maisie Hatfield, the jail matron, that the sisters, Gloria and Jenny had survived the shootout. However, their fate may have been worse than death. They were hustled out of the country, according to Maisie, and sold into bondage to a Mexican whorehouse deep in the interior of Yucatan where escape was improbable.
I'd saved my skin. I was the only woman left in the Gila Flats jail. I would soon regret my uniqueness.
During the period immediately following the debacle of the escape I was left alone. However, I was smart enough to realize that such peace was an illusion.
After a couple of days, Uncle Roy himself came to visit my cell. He put it right on the line.
"Five girls are gone," he said. "That means the town of Gila Flats is short five moneymakers. Meanwhile, the customers are beating down the doors of the Comstock. Unless we make some, uh, adjustments, looks like we're gonna have to raise the property taxes of the good citizens. And that's bad politics."
"And politics around here is bad business for the Mayor, Chief of Police, and chairman of the local board of directors." I wearily filled in the rest of the gaps. "All three, of course, being Uncle Roy Dean."
"You know," Uncle Roy grinned, "General Turnbull mentioned to me that it's too bad you're so skittish, because along with having a nice body, you've got a pretty good head on your shoulders for a whore. I can see what the old pirate meant."
"You're hardly keeping me around to think," I kept the conversation firmly rooted in the sludge of reality. "What do you expect of me? You must know that since I didn't try and escape with the others, I'm willing to do anything."
"Well, frankly, Mrs. Fuller, I like your enthusiasm."
"The enthusiasm of a slave."
"Whatever," he said. "Just so long as you keep it up. After all, until we apprehend some fresh female suspects, you're gonna have to do the work of the five missing girls, not to mention yourself. You're gonna have to do the work of six whores."
"I can hardly wait," I said sarcastically.
"Neither can the six guys who just rolled into town and are willing to go up to a grand if a gang bang can be arranged," he informed me.
"I see," I choked, my sauciness abruptly scrubbed.
"I thought you would," he evilly smiled. Then there was an ominous pause before he cheerfully added, "I hope you like violence."
Whether I lid it or not, I was going to get it. The six sadists with all the money turned out to be big enough to be the core of the Oakland Raiders offensive line.
What they were, however, were six professional wrestlers. I won't go into their names, but if you follow that so-called "sport" you know who they are.
An arena they'd been scheduled to perform in had burned down. Presented with a night off, the grunt-and-groaners decided to get in their Cadillacs and speed across the desert for a little wholesome recreation.
Of course, given the casual violence of their profession, their idea of wholesome recreation differed somewhat from the general public's.
A barbecue in the backyard, maybe fishing on the lake, for the average Joe. A gang bang for these professional thugs.
Uncle Roy let them do it in an old junk yard on the outskirts of town to make it more authentic. In fact, they even put me in the backseat of a wrecked car. The typical pro wrestler must have had a hell of an adolescence.
I was nude, needless to say. Also banged up a little. The boys had playfully worked me over before the main attraction. Resigned, I took it like a medicine ball.
When I was bruised and bleeding, one of the brutes threw me over his massive shoulder with no effort at all and carried me to the derelict auto, a dark, green '54 Ford, where he deposited me in the back. He performed the task like he was stuffing trash into a barrel.
"One more thing," he said just before he left to get in line.
There was no point in answering. By now I took anything for granted.
"Your legs are too close together."
He pinched his rod-like fingers into my thighs, lapping the massive thumbs over the top and around to the other side for added power. My legs came apart like they were tied to two horses galloping in opposite directions.
Suddenly feeling like a wound, my cunt gaped in a vertical yawn at the center of my wide-open crotch. It was so splayed, I guessed I could probably have taken all half dozen cocks in it at once.
But one-at-a-time was the name of the game for now. My suffering would be serial. Each chapter of my degradation would inevitably lead to one even more debasing.
Spread-eagled and alone in the backseat of the derelict Ford, I heard the boys raucously laughing in the center of the junk yard. Through the cracked prism of the front windshield I could see that they were drinking beer and playing games like a bunch of teenagers to see who would go first. I felt like a guest star on an obscene episode of "Happy Days."
Finally a big hairy guy with a beard, who wrestled as a Russian, was the winner. He opened his pants in front of the others, and then walked across the junk yard toward the car with his stiff cock twitching in front of him like it was pulling him forward. I guessed it was about ten inches, but with the thickness of a handle of a baseball bat.
He was carrying a can of beer. When he stuffed himself into the Ford he handed it to me. I started drinking from it as he worked his hard-on between my legs and we began fucking.
As the cool beer rolled down my throat, my cunt caught on fire from the skidding friction of the Russian's thick cock sparking up my pussy. Even though my cunt was as wide-open as it had ever been in my life, his huge prick was still an uncomfortably tight fit.
I kept drinking beer while he kept fucking me. On my empty stomach the alcohol worked quickly and helped dull the pain of so much broad cock in my cunt.
The Russian was a quick worker, burying his prick to the hilt in three or four efficient thrusts. Then he began rapidly stroking in and out, torturing his cockhead with his constant chafing foreskin.
He came before I even had a chance to anticipate it. All of a sudden my twat was swamped with hot cum and he was pulling out for good.
Another big dude was next. From the sound of his thick drawl he sounded like he came from Alabama or Mississippi.
He handed me a beer, too. At the same time he guided his enormous cock into my crotch and began pushing its nightstick-head between my pussy lips.
While I drained the dregs of the can, he began fiercely fucking me. His technique was soulful, and by the time I had finished the beer I could feel something for the first time besides pain.
You can be on satin sheets with your dream lover, or gang raped in the backseat of a broken-down Ford, if a big cock grinds away inside you long enough, your pussy is going to get wet. All women know this.
The friction of a cock in a cunt, regardless of the species of the owners reduces all of God's creatures to the same horny denominator. Female humans become as much like bitches in heat as bitches in heat.
"Fuck me harder, you big stud!" I cried to the wrestling prince. "Fill my cunt with cum!"
He did just that. Now my pussy was sticky with the sperm of two men. Four more to go.
The wrestling version of the Ail-American boy was next. He looked like Pat Boone with muscles.
And about eleven inches of throbbing cock.
"Oh, fuck me with that big thing," I begged him when he crawled in the Ford.
Another can of beer was in my hand and another cock between my legs before I could blink. Swigging down the beer, I got a little drunker as I was fucked by the third different man in mere minutes.
"Your cock feels so good," I honestly told him. "The other cum in my cunt makes it squirm around like a rattlesnake."
"The next guy'll have to have a telephone pole to stay inside," the All-American boy put it like a jocular pimp.
This kind of sex brought out the slimiest in everybody. I was sure that my twelve-year-old son, Donnie, would be alarmed to learn that one of his good-guy TV wrestling heroes saw the weaker sex as nothing but hairy cunts to be abused.
Of course, by now, Donnie's mother could take it all in stride. Hefting another beer to my lips, I gulped it and wiggled my ass. The cock of the Ail-American boy felt good in my twat, even if it did belong to a thug.
His cum was even hotter than the previous two. It seemed like molten lava as it bloated my fuck-hole. With three wads saturating it, my pussy felt like it was filled with marshmallows.
Then Pat Boone was gone, replaced by the furthest image from him possible. It was like being ravaged by a werewolf.
This two-hundred-and-fifty pounder was supposed to be some kind of Amazon wild man turned wrestler. His burly body was covered with hair, and it shot electrically from his head. There was even a ring in his nose.
I felt like King Kong was giving it to me as he brutally slapped it to me. His hard-on was the biggest one yet, and it hurt as good as it felt.
"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" I chanted in rhythm with his deeply thrusting strokes. His huge cock felt like a piston inside me.
"Your cunt's got so much cum in it I can't feel nothin', " he complained in a voice that revealed Brooklyn as the more likely source of his origin than the jungles of the Amazon.
I could understand what he was talking about. My cunt was so slippery that his prick must have felt like it was coasting in and out on oily ball-bearings. It was time for a little inspired sphincter action.
Squeezing my pussy muscles like a vise, I cut through the jizz and suddenly clamped the wildman's hard-on. His gasp told me that he had taken back his criticism of my equipment.
With cock and pussy tight, we really began fucking in earnest. The springs of the ancient back seat squealed like trapped rats as I bounced up and down from the sexual fury.
When the cum came it was like a ruptured fire hydrant. There was so much sperm that if this guy had really spent any time there, the jungle would be overpopulated.
Waiting in the rear of the Ford for the next fucker, I took brief stock of myself. Needless to say, I was a scummy mess. The congealing cum of a quartet of men was everywhere.
Fifth was an alleged Indian. I'd heard the kids ooh and ahh more than once when they were watching him apply his patented death-lock on Saturday afternoon TV wrestling when we were living in California.
I don't know if he was a real Indian, however, his cock was a tomahawk. It chopped into my crotch like a hatchet.
The strokes were so brutal that they managed to overcome the copious slime of cum that drenched my pussy. I could feel his slashing cock like I was on my first fuck.
Writhing with orgasm, I clattered my head against the beer cans that were lying around it. Then I grabbed the Coors from the Indian's hand and had a fresh brew.
"Come in my cunt," I burbled with a mouthful of suds. "My pussy's not wet enough yet."
Excited by my dirty talk, he went on the warpath, swinging away with all he had. As he violently ejaculated in my snatch, I made a mental note to be sure and fuck more men claiming to be Indians.
Then, the Indian was gone, and I was waiting with my cunt hemorrhaging with cum for the last man. I hoped he brought me a full can of beer along with his stiff cock-all this fucking was making me thirsty as hell.
I recognized him. He was the heavyweight champion of wrestling on the West Coast. He'd won the title from the All-American boy and defeated him in three re-matches-all by foul tactics. They showed the tapes on the Saturday matches the kids watched in California.
He had a deep sun tan and long platinum blonde hair. He looked like a two-hundred-and-seventy pound confection at an ice cream counter.
He was also two-hundred-and-seventy pounds of sadistic brute. This was one wrestler whose ring antics were not contrived.
He worked me over as he fucked me, pummeling me with forearm smashes and judo chops. The whole time he was cursing about how much he hated women. "This is like one of them mixed tag team matches," he snorted, "where you get to stomp them cunts!"
He came quickly. I suspected that his hostility had a lot more to do with it than the chafing walls of my cunt.
So I had taken all six. Don't think for a minute I thought it was all over.
They started coming back all over again. It was all right with me, I hadn't gotten my beer from the Champ, and my throat was as parched as my pussy was dripping.
When the first repeater climbed on top of my fuck-stained body, I took his beer along with his cock. As I took a long, welcome swig, I realized that I was getting humped in the ass. My pussy had finally become too sloppy to produce any friction.
He came in me so quickly that the last dregs of tepid beer were sliding down my throat as the hot cum surged up my ass. Closing my eyes it was easy to imagine he was ejaculating in both top and bottom.
I was drunk and orgasming constantly. My senses were of no use to me except for gauging my intoxication and level of climax. When the next repeater crawled between my legs and began fucking my ass, I was hardly aware that he was someone different than the man he had replaced.
A new can of beer. A new cock in my ass. "Fuck me harder, harder!" I screamed.
Whoever it was ground his loins into the crux of my thighs. His hard-on was in my butt to the hilt, his balls wedged between my spread buns and the inflamed head scorching my colon.
His prick surged. His hips bucked. The force sent the beer can crashing against my teeth just as the jizz flooded my bowels and loosened the shit in there from its moorings.
I spit out a piece of tooth just as my lower intestine collapsed. The grayish gruel of crap mixed with more than an equal portion of cum came spewing out.
Then there was somebody different in the backseat of the Ford with me. He cleaned up the mess with a piece of upholstery stuffing he'd gouged from one of the car's split seats, and then began cornholing me like his two predecessors.
Then I heard someone laughing. Even in my daze I could figure out it was the guy fucking me in the ass. Somebody-else was looking on.
I looked out the window. There wasn't just one of the others there-all five of them were watching. And all five of them were laughing.
"Pull her outta the car," one of them yelled. The guy ass-fucking me did it just as soon as he came.
Outside, I was thrown to the ground and surrounded by a circle of hard-cocked men. Then it closed in on me like a noose.
Somebody began fucking me in the cunt. Somebody else stuffed their cock in my ass.
They both shoved at once. As I took it, I moaned and spit out another chip of tooth.
Another can of beer was thrust in my face. The corner of another tooth shattered and my lips were split and bloody.
Somebody had the decency to wipe my sweaty forehead with a beer soaked rag. Then he collected the fee for his brief kindness by knocking away the beer can and beginning to brutally fuck me in the mouth.
A cock began scraping itself across my tits. It was soon joined by another one.
The sixth guy was jacking off in my hair, entangling his thrusting tool in the strands.
When they came, it was in a squirting chain. First one, then the next and the next.
Finally all six of them were shooting their wads in and on my naked body. The smell of raw sex and stale beer filled the junk yard.
I passed out. One of them brutally slapped me back into consciousness. They didn't want me missing out on a second of my degradation.
They began gang-fucking me all over again. They came again. I got sorer and stickier and gorier.
They called me a "bitch," and a "cunt," and a "whore," and every other dirty name they could think of. I was trash to them-human trash. When they were through fucking me, they'd leave me along with the rest of the cast-offs in the junk yard.
I had never felt so much a woman.