Chapter 13
Before I left the area I met two more girls.
Mary Alice was a broad-shouldered girl with long auburn hair, green eyes, and a lot of freckles. She had a nice pair of breasts, a slender waistline and pretty legs. At sixteen, Mary Alice decided she didn't want to stick around home and listen to her parents argue any more. She left, and disappeared from the face of the earth as far as her mother and father were concerned. "If they tried to find me, I doubt if they expended much effort, because from my earliest years I remember Mother telling me I was the cause of all her problems. She got knocked up and had to marry my dad, which I had nothing to do with. My dad was seldom pleasant to me, but he didn't blame all his troubles on me ... at least not to my face."
From working as a waitress in a greasy spoon, Mary Alice gravitated to doing some skin flicks. "The pay was good, but the people making the movies expected too much. I faced it head on. Decided if I was going to fuck for money, I might as well become an honest whore instead of a dishonest one. Balling in front of the camera for pay is whoring ... maybe marriage is, too, in a way."
Mary Alice seldom works anything but conventions and she belongs to a traveling group run by a man named Cicero. "Cicero has twelve or fifteen regular girls in his stable. We go where the conventions are, where the money is."
I asked her if she had a favorite group of men who come to the conventions. Her lilting laughter rang out and her green eyes sparkled. When she stopped laughing, she said, "This'll grab you. I think I like undertakers best. Want me to tell you a story about my favorite John?"
I said I did, and she launched into one of the most deliciously humorous episodes I ever heard.
"He was a nice, kind of elderly man. I'll call him Derek. Funeral parlors, or at least the people who run them, are a little like doctors and lawyers. Most often you'll find the business has been in the family for a long, long time. Derek was the third generation in his particular family to own the mortuary, and he was proud to be part of the tradition.
"One night when I was with him for the night, he said he was tired and didn't want to fuck. All he wanted to do was talk. I said that was okay with me and I knew there wouldn't be any question about Derek paying the fee because he was kind and generous. He said he wanted to talk to me about something he'd never been able to tell another soul ... and when he opened his mouth and began on the subject, I could sort of see why he didn't. I mean, the town where he lived wasn't all that big and he'd married a high society lady who brought up the children to believe they were a notch or two above the common folk. Anyway, here's what he said:
"I'm going to start it with the first thing I remember. I must have been about three years old. My old man was driving a Model T Ford. He thought he was big shit on a stick. And I thought I was little shit on a stick sitting there beside him. I don't know where we went, but I can remember what the place looked like. There were trees, lots of them, and chickens running around in the back yard. My dad went inside the house and there were a couple of girls on the porch where he left me. I was on a swing, one of those porch swings that's hung on chains and squeaks and creaks when you swing back and forth on it.
"To me, those girls were big girls. In their teens, I think, and they had me in the middle between them, swinging on the back porch. Every now and then I'd hear this sort of high-pitched wailing coming from inside the house. The girls swung and giggled fit to kill whenever the keening started up inside. One of them said my dad sure must be in good fucking shape, and the other one said she guessed he was just the same as always, and it wasn't until a long time after that when I got to talking to the old men around town that I found out my dad had a regular route of women he serviced. Widows and schoolteachers and the librarian, married women who had husbands who couldn't take care of them, the grocery owner's wife and the guy's wife that owned the hardware store. He took care of them all.
"Daddy used to tell me that ass was the only thing there was. 'What an ass,' he'd say when a pretty woman swung by. Only my dad wasn't saying it in admiration, or speculating on how it would be to have it. He was saying it with knowledge most of the time.
"At any rate, there I was, with those girls, and me only about three years old. Maybe four. One of them took my pants off. I was wearing a little sailor suit. The girl that took my pants off sort of came down on my little cock and kissed it. I tell you, it made me feel good! I got sort of scared and a little sick at the same time. I thought I would surely die if she didn't stop, and then I got to thinking I would surely die if she did stop. She started sucking on it, and damned if it didn't get hard. I can remember how absolutely delightful that felt. I don't know if I shot off or not, but the next thing I remember is the other one doing it to me. They took turns back and forth until they heard my dad coming out of the house.
"After that I tried to get that good feeling to come back to my little cock, but it was no use. I went around beating my meat for the next few years, watching the white stuff come spurting out the end. But I never found anything that made me feel as good as those girls did.
"One Sunday afternoon when I was about twelve, my mother took me out to a farm where some people had been burnt out. While the men were all working on the new house and the women were busy sewing and cooking, I was making out behind the barn with the farmer's daughter. After that I knew what I wanted more than anything else out of life-ass, plenty of ass. When my mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas that year, I forgot and told her the truth. 'Someone to screw,' I said, and she nearly had a stroke right on the spot. My dad laughed like hell."
"Hello, Mary Alice," came a husky voice from behind me.
"Oh, hi, Helena. Meet Ms. Evans. She's writing a book, all about convention girls. I'm going to be in it!"
"Really? Do you think I could be in it, too, Mr.-?"
"Evans," I repeated. "Sure ... join us. I'll be glad to hear anything you have to say."
Helena's hair was so black that it was almost blue. It reminded me of the old Wonder Woman comic books my daughter used to read when she was small. She wore very little makeup, and her nearly violet eyes shone from behind long dark lashes. She was tall and trim, not too busty, but perfectly in proportion. She wore a pair of tight-fitting bell-bottomed levis and a midriff blouse that tied beneath her obviously braless breasts.
"I had absolutely no intention of ever getting into this business," she began, resting her chin on folded hands. In fact, four years ago I considered myself happily married and planned to start a family. However, that happy marriage lasted only six months. It was then that I discovered my husband was living with another woman whenever he was out of town on business. He is an electrical supplies salesman and does a lot of traveling.
"I tell you, I came awfully close to having a nervous breakdown. I mean, there was absolutely no clue that Bill had another woman, especially so early in our marriage. She didn't know about me, either. She thought Bill was single. I guess she nearly cracked up too. She was planning on marrying him, I'm sure. The rotten bastard.
"Anyway, when I finally got over being so terribly hurt, I started to miss the sex Bill and I had. That part of our marriage was good, almost too good. I decided one dismal evening that the only thing to do was go out and find myself someone. I chose a little bar in the center of town for my hunting ground."
He had told her his name was John Jones. Since she had told him hers was Jane Smith, she didn't believe him. Neither did she enjoy the sex. He was brutal with her. The minute he closed the hotel room door, he started using abusive language. Before she'd even had a chance to take off her clothes, he'd thrown her across the bed and raised up her dress, slapping her across the cheeks of the buttocks as soon as he got her panties down. He'd objected to the pantyhose, saying, "A man can't get at a pussy through those things, girl." His big paw held her down while he ripped the pantyhose off with his fingernails. She could hear them tearing and feel the runs like bugs crawling down her legs. She protested about his rough treatment, and he'd laughed. "Listen, baby, all women like to get shoved around. Don't tell me. Besides, you take all kinds of chances when you start whoring around."
"But I'm not...."
"Shit, baby, don't hand me that crap about not being one of the regulars who work that bar. I suppose the next thing you'll tell me is that you've never done anything like this before in your life, or you got an old granny, and the only reason you're out in the street hustling your ass is because you have to buy her medicine."
He proceeded to tear off her hose and abuse her verbally, and followed this by slapping her ass, and now and then her face. She felt like crying, but managed not to, partly because she was too angry to cry. He talked all the time. She didn't have a chance to get a word in edgewise. He told her about the way his father had treated his mother. Rough. And said that was the reason the old lady stuck around. When Helena tried to answer him, he lifted her off the bed and threw her to the floor. She tried to struggle, to scream, anything to get away from him. By then she was sure she had run up against a crazy man. And he was so big, taller and heavier than average, so strong, she could do little to protect herself. She was beginning to fear for her life.
Certainly Helena had heard of anal sex, but she had never been interested in doing it that way. The idea was frightening to her as well as repugnant. But there was no way she could get away from the huge man who pinned her down on the floor and took her from the rear. She thought at first that she would faint from pain. The man had been so eager to get at her that she'd not even seen his cock. He'd moved fast, but from the feel of it, she knew it was very big.
"Oh, don't!" The cry was choked from her lips as he slapped her across the side of the head. "Please ... please!"
"Listen, baby, you take a tore-out, beat-up whore like you, you think I could even feel it if I shot my wad in your cunt?"
By then she was sobbing and trembling from head to foot, aware of nothing but the consuming pain that ripped through her like a searing flame. He ground his huge cock into her. She was helplessly impaled. When she remembered that the hotel was advertised as being completely soundproof, she knew it would do her no good to scream. Further, if she did, he would hit her again. He rammed deeper inside her and she could feel her sphincter ring bursting open again. She had felt it start to rip when he first entered her, and then there had been a slight lessening of the pain. She'd been in the process of drawing a shaky breath when he'd made another lunge into her. She could feel the ripping sensation in her tight anus.
For long stretches of time she seemed to hover in a semiconscious state, awakening to vicious stabs of incredible torture. It went on and on and on. Sometimes she was more aware of the pain than other times. Once or twice she began to get the hang of it, because she felt a slight answering response. But then he would give it a stirring sensation, moving his huge cock around and around inside her, and again the burning gashes of pain racked her. She panted and whimpered, praying it would soon be over.
Finally, just when she thought she surely would die if he didn't hurry and get it over with, she felt an increase in his speed, heard his breath make a kind of whistling sound. It would soon be over, she told herself. It was all she could do to keep from biting her lips and drawing blood. With one final lunge that she felt would surely kill her, he speared deeply inside her and she felt his hot semen squirting into her rectum. He was holding her by the hip bones, drawing deeply agonizing breaths as he half-leaned over her buttocks and back. It was only after he withdrew that she felt a new and dizzying place where she'd been hurt. Her knees had been ground into the rough carpet so hard that all the skin was rubbed off.
The man who had called himself John Jones was suddenly drawing her to her feet. "Now that wasn't so bad, was it, baby?" He sneered, looking at her tear-streaked face. "That's what I always like about whores. They can sure put on one hell of an act. But you liked it, I could tell. You must have come all over the place. Takes a real man to make a woman come with his prick shoved up her ass ... especially when she's a whore. You want to clean it up for me, baby?"
"Go to hell."
He grinned at her. "Spunky bitch, aren't you?" He seized her breasts, twisting the nipples so brutally that she was forced to the floor. Her raw knees burned as they touched the carpet. She knew she would die before she would put that thing of his in her mouth after it had been in her rectum; but she realized that was what he meant when he said to clean it. When she saw him getting to his knees, she thought she might have to die, at that, because he was offering her his limp cock as though it were a banquet. Well, he had called her a spunky bitch. Either she had guts, or she didn't. If she did, she had at least to try to keep that flaccid, wormy-looking cock out of her mouth.
She was glad she still had her dress on. Her shoes and purse could stay where they were for all she cared. Using her head, she started sweet-talking him. He beamed, saying something sickening, like he knew she'd come around sooner or later, and if there was anything he liked it was a girl who showed some spunk, as long as they didn't carry it too far.
She grabbed his prick in one hand and his balls in the other, twisting them the way he had twisted her nipples. She thought about the way her anus had felt while he was bludgeoning in and out of it, and gave his cock the benefit of her fingernails, wrenching his balls as hard as she could. While she had the advantage, she jumped up from the floor, turning loose of his appendages. He had not turned the latch on the door nor put the night chain in place. She was thankful for that, because he was no more than a foot behind her when she let herself out the door and ran down the hall. She figured he would be a little too sensitive to run down the hall after her without his pants, but just in case he jumped into them in a hurry and came after her, she didn't bother waiting for the elevator. There were six flights of stairs, but Helena was running so fast she didn't notice.
Afraid to stop in the lobby for fear the man had some connection with the hotel, Helena ran four blocks down the street to a restaurant where she was known.
Helena looked at me, bringing herself back to the present. She shrugged her shoulders. "So, you see, after that experience I just decided to go ahead and be a prostitute. I didn't think anyone could degrade me any more than I had been at the hands of that awful man. I actually think I get out to get even with him, and with my ex. I was going to show every man I could find that he couldn't get the best of me. And besides that, they'd have to pay me.
"I'm not quite so bitter now, though. In fact, I like most of my tricks, especially the undertakers. They're all so clean and mannerly. The only one I won't take to bed any more is a guy I'll call Max. He was one of my first customers after I started working with Cicero. He likes to be whipped ... with a regular bullwhip. In the frame of mind that I started this business, he was a perfect customer. I enjoyed every minute of whipping him, but I don't like to do that any more. I guess I'm getting mellow in my old age."
I smiled, and turned off my tape recorder. "And that can't be any more than, say, twenty-four, right?"
"Exactly, and I figure I'm good for at least another four years. By that time I should have quite a nest egg built up for myself." She looked at her watch. "Gotta run. I have an afternoon undertaker today."
I couldn't help laughing. "Well, thank you both," I said.
PART FOUR
Bits & Pieces