CALLIPYGIA
by
M.C. Envest
PRELUDE
Stephanie Daniels felt her mouth fall open. She had just received the shock of her young life.
“We want to create a more sensitive society,” Megan added.
My God. Stephanie’s mind flew to the interviewed men with stories of being used as studs. She had believed them, yes, at least believed that they really believed it, but had also sometimes considered them quite humorous and chauvinistic. Stud service. What a laugh. But no longer.
“Oh, we aren’t like Hitler—“ Megan began.
“Why aren’t you? Do the men have a choice in the matter?”
“Well, not really. But we don’t force them, exactly.”
“My God, Megan,” Stephanie pushed away, “Meg, I can’t stay here.” She moved to the tent flap, wriggled her way through, and then fully realized she was in deep forest with no idea which direction even to go. She hadn’t even kept track of their direction yesterday. Just not thinking clearly at all.
“I can’t let you leave, Steph,” Megan appeared at the tent flap, dragging her backpack.
“You can’t stop me, Meg.”
“Yes, I can.” Megan slipped through the tent opening, reached into her backpack, produced a very small handgun, “You must not leave, Steph.” She introduced a cylinder to the barrel and began twisting it on.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
ASSIGNMENT
1
ASSIGNMENT
Two months earlier
Stephanie Daniels waited by the window in her editor's third story office. Days had passed since learning of her assignment. She still felt unsettled about it, but curious, and no way would she not go. One hour had passed since leaving her apartment…and, her boyfriend. She had relived last night over and over. One scene played into the next without letup, like a recurring bad dream she could not wake up from.
She remembered stepping from the shower, hearing the muffled noise of baseball. It added one more snag to her deteriorating self-image. She had grabbed a towel, a huge, robin's egg-blue one. The soft cotton had felt good on her diminishing curves, her vanishing desires. In the shower she always remembered how things used to be.
She gazed out the window into bright, late July sunshine.
Nine o'clock. The morning traffic had not slowed down much. Or maybe it was her thoughts that hadn't. She was ready to get out of town. Escape her life, for awhile anyway.
The traffic was hypnotizing. She remembered seeing her reflection glinting from the full-length bathroom mirror. Too skinny, too flat. No more sweeping curve from her waist to her hips. Her hair had once caught all iridescent colors, but now was dull. Her face was OK, maybe, a bit round though. Her cheeks still had color, barely. The towel matched her eyes. Blue was her color. Any shade of blue set off her deep cerulean eyes. But five items of sheer black nylon and lace lay on the sink shelf.
The office door opened. Her editor, a man close to six feet entered. He was slim, but his beginning-to-spread middle body and thinning black-turning-gray hair showed his late middle age.
The sight of him brightened her, as always, "Hi, Norm." For a second she wondered what her boss thought of her body.
"Morning." Norm carried a light briefcase and a road map, "I get the idea this assignment has you a bit disturbed, Steph." He sat on the corner of his desk, "How come? I thought undercover was what you wanted."
"It's not the assignment, Norm." She glanced at him, then out the window again, "Anything new this morning, that I should know before heading for the depot?"
"A couple phone calls." He laid his briefcase on the desk, held onto the road map, "Other than that just the letters about Prudence College. You read them, right?"
"Yes. Prudence College. Nineteen." She began reciting as if reading from statistics, "The youngest of twenty-nine missing women in three years, ages from late twenties to late fifties, fifty-six being the oldest, the ages not typical of runaways, and an unusually high number for the area involved."
"There you hit on it, Steph. Not young enough for hooker recruiters, and most above the usual age for runaway wives, and way, way too many. And what about the women who are, statistically, simply too old for runaways?"
I don't know, and is there really an age too old?"
"OK. I guess today statistics have changed somewhat."
"It still doesn't jell, Norm." She crossed her arms, tightened them against her—too small—bosom, hunched her shoulders, "No witnesses. No evidence except the missing women. Maybe wives are plain getting smarter about their men at any age." She thought of her Billy-boy, "Girlfriends too."
"Sure, Steph." He arrived beside her, slipped an arm around her shoulders, bringing with him a sweet-sour smell of pipe tobacco and sweat, a way she liked thinking her own father would have smelled. "You keep right on thinking a slave camp couldn't exist. Believe me, honey, big cities and foreign countries no longer have such monopolies."
"I suppose slavery could be involved, Norm, but why does it have to be a camp run by lesbians?"
"Because that's the story people want, and the slant your story is to have. No matter what the truth, the slant is lesbian." He returned to his desk, plopped down in his swivel chair, "What the local people are telling, and what your normal vicarious, violence loving person wants to read about right now is women holding women prisoners."
Norm's sympathetic brown eyes hinted he did not much care for the situation but was trying to stay in perspective, "Prisoners. Training whips and chains. Slave-buyers. Orgies—the whole kit'n'kaboodle! And one of the phone calls this morning came from a reporter at the Quicksilver Gazette. I guess somebody up there finally started thinking that upwards of a dozen men dumped on backcountry roads—with some hair-raisin' stories to tell—was important."
"Like what, Norm? Those men could be witnesses."
"Afraid not. First, they can't describe anything because they claim to have been bound and blindfolded, and drugged, during the sessions."
"Sessions?"
Norm reddened as he smiled. Then he put his hand over his face and rubbed down, as if wiping the smile away, "Sex sessions, Stephie, in which they claim to have been used as studs. Booze always reeked from their clothes, but was never found in their blood."
"No alcohol in their blood, but, something?"
"Phenobarbital, those that got checked. The first half-dozen or so were just assumed to be drunk."
"Then they can't be considered credible at all."
"No, but normally they're credible, and they all tell the same story, far as it goes."
"What do you mean 'normally' credible?"
"Normal men." Norm hunched his shoulders, "Upstanding men in their communities. Intelligent. What more can I say?"
"Single? Married? Both?"
"Don't know. That's what you'll have to find out. Interview all of'’em if you have to."
"So why didn't you mention these men last week?"
"Confirmation, Steph. That came this morning too, and a list of phone numbers and first names by fax." Norm's brow wrinkled heavily. He seemed to slump further into his chair, suddenly seeming ten years older than the fifty-five or so she had him figured for. "You're finally going out, Steph, and I'm concerned about you." He clasped his hands behind his head, looked right at her, "So you have to know everything I can tell you, which isn't much." His brow fell again, "But I do have some other general information, and a few suggestions."
So Stephanie listened while he launched into a harangue of 'dos' and 'don'ts' and a blunt list of all the officially known condensed smirch of fact and fiction about homosexual women. To have heard him one would think he secretly believed all women, including herself, probably could not wait to eliminate all men from the earth, and then, among themselves, throw all sexual inhibition and taboo to the wind.
Women had been on her own mind lately too, indirectly, like when she was supposed to be concentrating on having sex with Billy, but instead was thinking about women. It had started with brief flashes, like a trilling, as if some new hormone were working, giving her strength. Impulsive murmurs suggesting things she had refused, outwardly at least, till then, to even think about. And some other things she could think about quite easily, including 'drop Billy-boy'. The immature male who had leeched on her for far too long. But Billy wouldn't let go easily, just like she no longer put on the five items of black nylon and lace easily.
Last night with Billy kept coming back. She could hear Norm's voice, could see his lips moving, even thought she comprehended his words, but…she saw the black bra. She grasped it, began working the scratchy cups onto her breasts, remembering still further back to the first time. Billy had laid the gift-wrapped bundle before her. Only twenty-four then, her breasts had stood out proudly. Her nipples had poked at the wispy fabric until she feared they might burst through. No longer. Almost four years had passed since that inimitable night but now her breasts sagged.
She tuned Norm back in fully, and felt she had heard most of what he said. True, some strange things were happening up in the regional neighborhood of Quicksilver, South Dakota, but still nothing to support the idea of women cracking whips over women. Not that she thought female sadism couldn't exist. But this provincial account was most likely imagined by some very defeated and perverted male. A yarn such as her Billy-boy would be capable of should she desert him.
Not a bad idea.
She laughed silently. Whatever. She needed time away from her regular
job, the city, and Billy-boy. Just plain away.
Norm monologued on as she remembered the letters from Prudence College's two men. A rich, pompous daddy demanding the Cheyenne Eagle, a main regional newspaper, 'do something.' And an egomaniacal boyfriend who could not believe Prudence—academically honored beauty queen with everything she could possibly wish for—could possibly wish for anything so superfluous as personal freedom, independence, identity, and would never, ever, just disappear.
But somehow Stephanie felt Ms. Prudence College had done just that.
Norm slapped his desk as he finished talking, opened a drawer and removed a blue marker, then walked to a tripod and began shaking out the roadmap, "North-central United States." He tacked it up, picked up a pointer and rapped, "Right there, Stephie." He drew a circle with the pointer, then repeated with the marker, "The sector takes in a big portion of western South Dakota, a smaller portion of eastern Wyoming, and with the addition of Prudence, from Dixon Falls, just a few miles from the Nebraska line, we have about a sixty-mile radius with the center," he jabbed the pointer, "The Black Hills."
She too had kept track of the missing women and their addresses, had already decided The Black Hills—a mighty big piece of wild real estate—could possibly hold some answers, "I've always wanted to visit Mount Rushmore, Norm, and it does seem like a good place for a modern legend."
"Legend is right, Stephie. We're losing our youngest, healthiest, most beautiful women to the Dakota Amazons."
"Yes, the story from the local macho men who can't stand it when a woman doesn't instantly and naturally get down on her knees." As she had the night before, for her Billy-boy.
Norm reddened again, "I want a story, Steph. Amazons. Lesbians. Local female machos—I don't care, but I want a story. And those men want their wives and girlfriends back."
"I can imagine what for." For what she had done for her Billy, dozens of times, what she had once considered nearly a sacred act. But it kept coming back to her as a jolt. Not so sacred with someone she did not love. The details flew in and out of her mind—but she had to pay attention to her employer.
"...the other call this morning was from Prudence's boyfriend," Norm was saying, "He's forming a vigilante committee to dispatch dogs and posses."
Stephanie shook her head, "That's illegal, Norm." She suddenly felt compassion for the women, whoever they were, whatever they were doing.
"He says the local law will be included, but what's legal is not our business, young lady. Are you sure you can remain detached from this story?"
"I'll do the story as you have taught me, old man."
"All right." He grinned and put his hand on her shoulder, "Figure you can dress up like a young fox then?"
She hunched her shoulders, "I'll try, Norm." But after seeing herself in the mirror last night she wasn't so sure, "I'll change in the depot's rest room. In a professional journalist, out a youthful, devil-may-care runaway."
"Twenty-eight, slinky body, sultry eyes, witchy black hair, you shouldn't have much trouble, sweetheart."
Poor Norm. Evidently he wasn't getting much at home to talk so, for he had never made suggestive comments about her figure before. Nice to hear though. She smiled.
"Dang it, Stephanie. I know there's some kind of slavecamp up there and I want you to be careful!" He squeezed her shoulder, then released her and stepped back. Norm never used her given name unless he was concerned, which—even though he often tried filling the parent void in her life—had been darned few times during the seven years she had worked for him. Fifteen if she counted the years delivering papers while in foster care and later serving as errand runner and stocker.
She felt extra warm toward him right then, even considered taking him into his private restroom and getting down on her knees for him, and doing what she felt certain his frumpy wife never did. But he probably did see her as a daughter and that kind of interchange would ruin everything, "I'll be careful, Norm." She stepped forward and hugged him, "And I'll call in twice a week. If a full week passes you can be pretty sure I've either found something, or have decided to disappear myself.
"I've read a lot lately about women like that." Norm returned the hug, then patted her shoulder and stepped back, his face sober, "Just take care of yourself, Stephie, please, and don't spend the rest of the summer up there."
"Right." She hugged him once more and kissed his cheek close to his mouth, "So long, Norm. I'll think of you."
She gathered her gear, a medium suitcase and an army-green backpack like some college students used, then started for the door, wondering, consciously, about women 'like that'.
ASSIGNMENT
Two months earlier
Stephanie Daniels waited by the window in her editor's third story office. Days had passed since learning of her assignment. She still felt unsettled about it, but curious, and no way would she not go. One hour had passed since leaving her apartment…and, her boyfriend. She had relived last night over and over. One scene played into the next without letup, like a recurring bad dream she could not wake up from.
She remembered stepping from the shower, hearing the muffled noise of baseball. It added one more snag to her deteriorating self-image. She had grabbed a towel, a huge, robin's egg-blue one. The soft cotton had felt good on her diminishing curves, her vanishing desires. In the shower she always remembered how things used to be.
She gazed out the window into bright, late July sunshine.
Nine o'clock. The morning traffic had not slowed down much. Or maybe it was her thoughts that hadn't. She was ready to get out of town. Escape her life, for awhile anyway.
The traffic was hypnotizing. She remembered seeing her reflection glinting from the full-length bathroom mirror. Too skinny, too flat. No more sweeping curve from her waist to her hips. Her hair had once caught all iridescent colors, but now was dull. Her face was OK, maybe, a bit round though. Her cheeks still had color, barely. The towel matched her eyes. Blue was her color. Any shade of blue set off her deep cerulean eyes. But five items of sheer black nylon and lace lay on the sink shelf.
The office door opened. Her editor, a man close to six feet entered. He was slim, but his beginning-to-spread middle body and thinning black-turning-gray hair showed his late middle age.
The sight of him brightened her, as always, "Hi, Norm." For a second she wondered what her boss thought of her body.
"Morning." Norm carried a light briefcase and a road map, "I get the idea this assignment has you a bit disturbed, Steph." He sat on the corner of his desk, "How come? I thought undercover was what you wanted."
"It's not the assignment, Norm." She glanced at him, then out the window again, "Anything new this morning, that I should know before heading for the depot?"
"A couple phone calls." He laid his briefcase on the desk, held onto the road map, "Other than that just the letters about Prudence College. You read them, right?"
"Yes. Prudence College. Nineteen." She began reciting as if reading from statistics, "The youngest of twenty-nine missing women in three years, ages from late twenties to late fifties, fifty-six being the oldest, the ages not typical of runaways, and an unusually high number for the area involved."
"There you hit on it, Steph. Not young enough for hooker recruiters, and most above the usual age for runaway wives, and way, way too many. And what about the women who are, statistically, simply too old for runaways?"
I don't know, and is there really an age too old?"
"OK. I guess today statistics have changed somewhat."
"It still doesn't jell, Norm." She crossed her arms, tightened them against her—too small—bosom, hunched her shoulders, "No witnesses. No evidence except the missing women. Maybe wives are plain getting smarter about their men at any age." She thought of her Billy-boy, "Girlfriends too."
"Sure, Steph." He arrived beside her, slipped an arm around her shoulders, bringing with him a sweet-sour smell of pipe tobacco and sweat, a way she liked thinking her own father would have smelled. "You keep right on thinking a slave camp couldn't exist. Believe me, honey, big cities and foreign countries no longer have such monopolies."
"I suppose slavery could be involved, Norm, but why does it have to be a camp run by lesbians?"
"Because that's the story people want, and the slant your story is to have. No matter what the truth, the slant is lesbian." He returned to his desk, plopped down in his swivel chair, "What the local people are telling, and what your normal vicarious, violence loving person wants to read about right now is women holding women prisoners."
Norm's sympathetic brown eyes hinted he did not much care for the situation but was trying to stay in perspective, "Prisoners. Training whips and chains. Slave-buyers. Orgies—the whole kit'n'kaboodle! And one of the phone calls this morning came from a reporter at the Quicksilver Gazette. I guess somebody up there finally started thinking that upwards of a dozen men dumped on backcountry roads—with some hair-raisin' stories to tell—was important."
"Like what, Norm? Those men could be witnesses."
"Afraid not. First, they can't describe anything because they claim to have been bound and blindfolded, and drugged, during the sessions."
"Sessions?"
Norm reddened as he smiled. Then he put his hand over his face and rubbed down, as if wiping the smile away, "Sex sessions, Stephie, in which they claim to have been used as studs. Booze always reeked from their clothes, but was never found in their blood."
"No alcohol in their blood, but, something?"
"Phenobarbital, those that got checked. The first half-dozen or so were just assumed to be drunk."
"Then they can't be considered credible at all."
"No, but normally they're credible, and they all tell the same story, far as it goes."
"What do you mean 'normally' credible?"
"Normal men." Norm hunched his shoulders, "Upstanding men in their communities. Intelligent. What more can I say?"
"Single? Married? Both?"
"Don't know. That's what you'll have to find out. Interview all of'’em if you have to."
"So why didn't you mention these men last week?"
"Confirmation, Steph. That came this morning too, and a list of phone numbers and first names by fax." Norm's brow wrinkled heavily. He seemed to slump further into his chair, suddenly seeming ten years older than the fifty-five or so she had him figured for. "You're finally going out, Steph, and I'm concerned about you." He clasped his hands behind his head, looked right at her, "So you have to know everything I can tell you, which isn't much." His brow fell again, "But I do have some other general information, and a few suggestions."
So Stephanie listened while he launched into a harangue of 'dos' and 'don'ts' and a blunt list of all the officially known condensed smirch of fact and fiction about homosexual women. To have heard him one would think he secretly believed all women, including herself, probably could not wait to eliminate all men from the earth, and then, among themselves, throw all sexual inhibition and taboo to the wind.
Women had been on her own mind lately too, indirectly, like when she was supposed to be concentrating on having sex with Billy, but instead was thinking about women. It had started with brief flashes, like a trilling, as if some new hormone were working, giving her strength. Impulsive murmurs suggesting things she had refused, outwardly at least, till then, to even think about. And some other things she could think about quite easily, including 'drop Billy-boy'. The immature male who had leeched on her for far too long. But Billy wouldn't let go easily, just like she no longer put on the five items of black nylon and lace easily.
Last night with Billy kept coming back. She could hear Norm's voice, could see his lips moving, even thought she comprehended his words, but…she saw the black bra. She grasped it, began working the scratchy cups onto her breasts, remembering still further back to the first time. Billy had laid the gift-wrapped bundle before her. Only twenty-four then, her breasts had stood out proudly. Her nipples had poked at the wispy fabric until she feared they might burst through. No longer. Almost four years had passed since that inimitable night but now her breasts sagged.
She tuned Norm back in fully, and felt she had heard most of what he said. True, some strange things were happening up in the regional neighborhood of Quicksilver, South Dakota, but still nothing to support the idea of women cracking whips over women. Not that she thought female sadism couldn't exist. But this provincial account was most likely imagined by some very defeated and perverted male. A yarn such as her Billy-boy would be capable of should she desert him.
Not a bad idea.
She laughed silently. Whatever. She needed time away from her regular
job, the city, and Billy-boy. Just plain away.
Norm monologued on as she remembered the letters from Prudence College's two men. A rich, pompous daddy demanding the Cheyenne Eagle, a main regional newspaper, 'do something.' And an egomaniacal boyfriend who could not believe Prudence—academically honored beauty queen with everything she could possibly wish for—could possibly wish for anything so superfluous as personal freedom, independence, identity, and would never, ever, just disappear.
But somehow Stephanie felt Ms. Prudence College had done just that.
Norm slapped his desk as he finished talking, opened a drawer and removed a blue marker, then walked to a tripod and began shaking out the roadmap, "North-central United States." He tacked it up, picked up a pointer and rapped, "Right there, Stephie." He drew a circle with the pointer, then repeated with the marker, "The sector takes in a big portion of western South Dakota, a smaller portion of eastern Wyoming, and with the addition of Prudence, from Dixon Falls, just a few miles from the Nebraska line, we have about a sixty-mile radius with the center," he jabbed the pointer, "The Black Hills."
She too had kept track of the missing women and their addresses, had already decided The Black Hills—a mighty big piece of wild real estate—could possibly hold some answers, "I've always wanted to visit Mount Rushmore, Norm, and it does seem like a good place for a modern legend."
"Legend is right, Stephie. We're losing our youngest, healthiest, most beautiful women to the Dakota Amazons."
"Yes, the story from the local macho men who can't stand it when a woman doesn't instantly and naturally get down on her knees." As she had the night before, for her Billy-boy.
Norm reddened again, "I want a story, Steph. Amazons. Lesbians. Local female machos—I don't care, but I want a story. And those men want their wives and girlfriends back."
"I can imagine what for." For what she had done for her Billy, dozens of times, what she had once considered nearly a sacred act. But it kept coming back to her as a jolt. Not so sacred with someone she did not love. The details flew in and out of her mind—but she had to pay attention to her employer.
"...the other call this morning was from Prudence's boyfriend," Norm was saying, "He's forming a vigilante committee to dispatch dogs and posses."
Stephanie shook her head, "That's illegal, Norm." She suddenly felt compassion for the women, whoever they were, whatever they were doing.
"He says the local law will be included, but what's legal is not our business, young lady. Are you sure you can remain detached from this story?"
"I'll do the story as you have taught me, old man."
"All right." He grinned and put his hand on her shoulder, "Figure you can dress up like a young fox then?"
She hunched her shoulders, "I'll try, Norm." But after seeing herself in the mirror last night she wasn't so sure, "I'll change in the depot's rest room. In a professional journalist, out a youthful, devil-may-care runaway."
"Twenty-eight, slinky body, sultry eyes, witchy black hair, you shouldn't have much trouble, sweetheart."
Poor Norm. Evidently he wasn't getting much at home to talk so, for he had never made suggestive comments about her figure before. Nice to hear though. She smiled.
"Dang it, Stephanie. I know there's some kind of slavecamp up there and I want you to be careful!" He squeezed her shoulder, then released her and stepped back. Norm never used her given name unless he was concerned, which—even though he often tried filling the parent void in her life—had been darned few times during the seven years she had worked for him. Fifteen if she counted the years delivering papers while in foster care and later serving as errand runner and stocker.
She felt extra warm toward him right then, even considered taking him into his private restroom and getting down on her knees for him, and doing what she felt certain his frumpy wife never did. But he probably did see her as a daughter and that kind of interchange would ruin everything, "I'll be careful, Norm." She stepped forward and hugged him, "And I'll call in twice a week. If a full week passes you can be pretty sure I've either found something, or have decided to disappear myself.
"I've read a lot lately about women like that." Norm returned the hug, then patted her shoulder and stepped back, his face sober, "Just take care of yourself, Stephie, please, and don't spend the rest of the summer up there."
"Right." She hugged him once more and kissed his cheek close to his mouth, "So long, Norm. I'll think of you."
She gathered her gear, a medium suitcase and an army-green backpack like some college students used, then started for the door, wondering, consciously, about women 'like that'.
QUICKSILVER BY GREYHOUND
2
QUICKSILVER BY GREYHOUND
At ten that morning Stephanie boarded a northbound bus. She slipped into the front seat opposite the driver and next to the window, then placed her backpack beside her, indicating, she hoped, that the seat was unavailable. Several hours to Quicksilver, hub of The Black Hills, and she didn't want involvement with a male passenger en route.
For certain not how she was dressed. A blue hanky held her hair in a wide ponytail. A red and white checked gingham halter-top was tied between her navel and breasts. Frayed blue denim cutoffs covered her middle. Ragged and dusty canvas shoes completed her, for lack of a better word, costume.
She opened the backpack and began checking her gear. Two sets of clean grubbies matching what she wore, extra canvas shoes, makeup, notebook and pens, small digital camera, small canteen of water, candy bars, three paperback romances, the latest Tom Clancy thriller, twenty Andrew Jackson bills, and
a Visa card sewn into the lining behind one of the pockets. As she rummaged, her mind returned to the night before, again. The black bra was now on her. She remembered thinking 'how futile' for Billy-boy would simply unsnap it, in haste maybe even break it, again, remove and throw it as if it were just that, something to rip away. If he even bothered removing anything at all from her. That had been happening a lot lately too.
She stopped rummaging. Her hands remained in the backpack, but her eyes were staring out the front bus window at nothing. She remembered wondering if she should tell Billy of her assignment confirmation before their lovemaking, or after. But what a joke. Lovemaking was not what they did. It simply was not. Her eyes returned to her hands. Everything was there. Most items should pass for a runaway's—
"Mind if I join you, Miss?"
She slammed the backpack shut and slipped it back into the other seat,
then stared up at a man about her own age but appearing extra mature. Something hidden behind the smiling curve of mouth and innocent thicket of light brown hair under a wide brimmed hat. But not quite hidden behind his dark blue eyes. A suppressed cruelty.
"Yes." She tried to hide her surprise, "I mean no. Sorry, but this seat is taken." With the backpack laying there the statement wasn't quite untrue.
The smile in his mouth intensified. Lines in his face deepened, maybe even darkening with what could have been a controlled rush of blood. Just enough to make her sure she was right in declining his request.
"Maybe next time." He nodded politely and started down the bus's aisle.
A slender young woman with short dark brown hair followed, close enough to be with him. Young? She thought the woman was young, yet, something about her. Too much powder? The woman didn't stop but did look at Stephanie with sharp brown eyes that seemed to dart toward her crotch for a second, her narrow face smiling, really looking, leering even.
Gone. Stephanie trembled, wasn't sure why. Neither the young man or woman had done anything, really, except be her first exposure to her new identity as Stephanie the runaway. He even appeared to have had a nice manner about him, at least could have been someone to talk to. But she didn't need that. What she needed was to go over her plan. Not much, just hitchhiking around the country, asking covert questions—except when she dressed professionally for the official interviews—but mostly just trying to appear as a young girl on the move.
The driver closed the door, in another moment roared the engine. Then they were moving, in a short time on the highway.
Her second piece of luggage rode below in the freight compartment. Mentally she began checking off those items: Laptop, cell phone, blank CDs, small flashlight, batteries, envelopes, postage, four changes of better clothes…again her mind wandered. She saw the pathetic little pile of black nylon and lace. The panties. She stepped into the leg holes, remembered wishing the scratchy caress from the flimsy material would turn her on, like it used to. It should have. But lately nothing was.
Almost nothing. Something was. But she held off thinking about it.
It was too different, too…she could not think of a word to describe her new feelings, but also knew her new feelings were not new. The feelings had been with her, subconsciously, for years. But lately they were approaching the surface, trying hard to break into the light.
And she kept trying hard to stop them.
Billy-boy's face broke into her thoughts. How he had looked four years earlier. Tantalizing, mischievous brown eyes. Rich tan. Wide-mouthed smile. A hooked nose giving him a masculinity distinct from most other men. Then his face changed to last night. Smile missing. Lips closed tight, intent on his baseball game. The rest of his body sagging, like hers, and pale, almost sickly looking. Four years had changed him. No, the easy living had. For soon after the gift of nylon and lace had come the announcement of quitting his job, rarely to work again except for a few days at a time.
Maybe the young man she had denied the seat would come back. Right then she needed to be noticed by a man, or thought she did. But not that young man. The feeling of suppressed cruelty in his eyes returned. Yes, she was right in denying the seat.
The world came back into focus. The Wyoming countryside was rushing past the bus window. What had she been thinking about? She put her hand to her mouth. Oh, yes. Inventorying. Better clothes, for the official interviews, and plenty more makeup to keep her looking teenager when she wasn't officially interviewing. At least younger than twenty-eight.
Not likely. She looked at her legs. Kind of bony. And the frayed part
of her cutoffs had pulled up, exposing the whiter parts of her thighs. Lucky she had started a tan that year, as most young girls did. Even with much media coverage about tanning and skin cancer they were still doing it. Stephanie hadn’t done much, just about ten minutes a day for two weeks, and mostly on her legs.
The flesh of her upper thighs was softer there too, with a whiteness and softness she had noticed on other women wearing cutoffs. Especially if they bent over or knelt, causing a display of flesh that she had impulsively stared at, and not just once but every time she saw it. Her heart gave a thump as she stared at her own groin, the whiteness, the softness, the mound of flesh between her legs pushing against the denim. Her heart thumped again, differently, the resonance settling deep within her stomach.
She didn't understand her subtle new feelings. They were too delicate,
too fleeting, but she accepted them as good because they made her feel good. Very good. And even though she sometimes tried to deny it she often felt an expanding sense of new freedom. She wasn't really sure when the thoughts and changes—if they really were changes—had begun. She just knew some heart strung mechanism had said 'stop, enough.'
Yes. Enough.
Finally it had seemed as if something deep inside her had germinated, taking her up with it into brighter light, suggesting to her that she alone was responsible for her own life, happiness, and whoever she chose, or did not choose. Billy-boy she did not choose, yet had allowed him four years of her life. Just four hours away from him had made that fact abundantly clear.
The realization lifted a great weight and made her smile. The fervor at which she had been staring at her own groin moderated. And maybe she didn't look nineteen, exactly, but she did look kind of slinky—Norm said so—and she would look even slinkier as her suntan deepened, which wouldn't take long once she
got out on the road.
Continuing the smile she thrust away from the seat and pulled the cutoffs down, covering herself slightly. But they pulled right away again. But she didn't worry about it and settled into the seat, plopped her chin on her right palm and stayed thus, smiling and dreaming, almost sleeping sometimes…
She saw her backside in the bathroom mirror. She no longer filled the panties. The skimpy thing almost hung on her. Billy hadn't even noticed her weight loss. Once he had kept track of every ounce, and knew where just by holding her. She choked in her daydream, then found herself actually choking. Then a few tears came. She dug in a very small purse hanging from around her head and shoulder, found a hanky and soaked away the tears, then lay back again. And the insistent daydream continued.
There were the slippers, making her look like an elf Billy once said.
She grabbed them and put them on. Then the cape, soft and seductive she once thought, but papery now, scratchy—hell, it always had been. She grabbed it and put it on with no ceremony. Just get it over with. With that unhappy expectation she entered the bedroom.
****
How could she remember such details? But over and over it played in her mind. How many times that day? She had just stepped into the bedroom when the crack of a bat hitting a baseball and Billy cheering hit her full in the face.
He lay on her queen-size bed, nude but for dingy shorts that he rarely changed, paperback open on his chest. She had come to accept his crudeness, but the television infuriated her. Soft music should be playing, like strings, instrumental, like Kenny G. Hell, it was her TV. She could do what she wanted, and walked to the bed, grabbed the remote, clicked it off."
"Hey!"
Her palm felt sweaty on the remote, "Billy…," her voice sounded so meek, "You can't want to watch baseball while we," her stomach sank, "make love."
"Wrong, Doll." He didn't sound like he cared at all, "Turn it back on."
She did, then walked to the edge of the bed as he threw the baby blue satin sheets she had paid way too much for half on the floor, and propped both pillows behind him. "Come on, Doll." He patted the bed beside him, "It won't hurt you to do it different one time."
'One' time?
His eyes stayed on the tube. She lay down, the noise of baseball ending what desire she had felt, if she had felt any. Now just sex. It occurred to her it had been just sex for a long time.
"Get me warmed up, will ya, Doll?" Billy slipped his shorts off, "And get yourself ready too, OK? I hate to miss any of this game, OK?"
She hated even answering, "How much is left?"
"Top of the fourth."
Her heart sank. She felt like leaving, and looked about for something to put around herself. She didn't want him to even see her.
"Come on, Babe. Humor me, will ya?"
She laughed to herself, grabbed the panties, thrust up, jerked the scratchy thing off and threw it across the room, then glanced at Billy. He had not noticed her little tantrum, the extra white flashing from her eyes nor the sadness following, the hurt. His eyes were on his fucking game!
Then she just lay staring at delicate etching in the suspended cloth print of THE TREE OF LIFE. A romantic thing she had spent a whole Saturday hanging, pounding endless tacks to form a cushiony latticework on the ceiling, only to have Billy-boy come home drunk after midnight and not even notice. Not for two weeks did he notice, then only to inform her it would catch dust.
That matter had brought tears, after he was asleep and wouldn't know. She felt like crying now. No, not crying, but something. Her last night home for awhile and her man gave little indication he even cared she was alive.
But, as in the past, she would push away her feelings, do what was necessary to warm him up, receive his orgasm, and be left alone to herself in her frustration. But she would do it, and began moving her hand toward the body beside her. She found the extension of that body, a tiny, shrunken, wizened thing, and began massaging without looking at it. Or him.
In the beginning, the extension—she had not thought of it then as that—had always achieved rigidity in seconds, sometimes plain never really shrank much. But no longer. Several minutes passed before she felt any life in it at all.
She didn't care. She just wanted it over. She had given him food, shelter, sex, and made him give her nothing in return, thinking love, compassion, respect, all would come naturally. In those early days it had.
Or had she only thought so?
"Can't seem to get it up, Doll. How 'bout a little help from that sweet mouth of yours?" He made his first movement. Nothing, really, just put his hand behind her head, tightened on her hair, and pulled, "You know what to do."
She did, and went, gladly. Just get it over with. She shut her eyes.
She didn't need to see. She knew what and where and opened her mouth, drew
the still limp extension into it, and began squeezing, stroking, massaging
with hands, lips, tongue.
A vision came. A bright place of green and blue and sunshine…and…women. In pairs, groups, some sitting, walking, but all looking away, backs turned, no faces. She saw only their backsides, but knew all were beautiful.
"Ahhhhh, that's it, Dolly, that's it." His hand tightened on her hair. She barely noticed. "You do that so damned good—the hell! That was a strike not a ball! Shit!"
Stephanie barely heard the insult. She had entered the one part of their relationship she still enjoyed, the dream world part. Only her fantasy was women.
The vision came stronger. Were some holding hands? Hugging? Kissing? She moved her hands and mouth stronger. She wanted to join in whatever the women were doing. A buzzing came into her head. She heard nothing more of Billy's game, didn't even realize when lust made him grip her hair. She only perceived the extension growing harder, hotter, making her want to join the women even more. She comprehended nothing else until her hair was pulled.
"Enough, Doll! Get up here and let me make you happy!"
She stopped but kept her eyes closed. Then she pulled herself next to him as he rolled, and opened herself, helped guide him—she popped her eyes for one second, saw him gaping back at the television, then gritted her teeth, gripped the extension, helped him aim, then received him. But not easily, for little of her own lubrication had liberated itself.
"Use some jelly next time, Stephanie—He's out! YEAH!"
She ignored him and thrust. She gripped his buttocks and used her own muscles to milk him and hurry him. She was too dry. Almost painful. But he wouldn't take long. He never did. Once her juices had flowed as a waterfall—
she saw the women again, some were holding each other—she pushed against him harder, heard him groaning, grunting, then surging, then his orgasm. At last. Then his collapse against her. Then his quick withdrawal. Then his roll off and away, back to the pillows, back to his game.
Their sex was over. And it had been nothing.
****
The memory dream ended. Stephanie's eyes popped open. She needed a man. A real man. That man she had denied the seat beside her. But she didn't want that man. She feared that man, at least thought she did. Yes, she did fear him, and she didn't want him anyway. She wanted a woman.
I want a woman.
Her stomach cramped. She could not believe the thought she had just had. She tried to blank it out. She could not have had that thought. She sat up, stared out the window at the countryside. It was beautiful. She kept staring at it.
She did not have that thought. What thought?
Time slipped by. She had kept track of road signs and knew approximately where they were. About five p.m. the highway began a wide arc and the four granite presidential faces of Mount Rushmore came into view.
Spectacular.
She felt her spirits rise even further. She thought of the monumental life work of that great sculptor, Gutzon Borglum, who died in 1941 and did not see his work completed. Yes, she had done her homework on The Black Hills and felt ready to tackle her assignment.
More time slipped by, until a sign lit by the bus's headlights, 'ENTERING QUICKSILVER, POPULATION 40,…
Forty thousand and something.
****
Stephanie began feeling sweat beads the moment they entered the glare of the small city's streetlights. Memory of the night before began pounding her head, then fading as memory of the more recent thought jabbed her—I want a woman.
Again she denied ever having that thought. She could not have thought that. She blanked her thoughts, and kept blanking them. She had to. She had a job to do. She needed a man. A good man. Blank the thoughts. Blank everything.
When she saw the lit Greyhound sign ahead she slipped the backpack onto her shoulders and got to her feet, hung onto the vertical bar just before the steps down.
The driver glanced at her, "Be careful there, young lady." For a second she felt protected by this adult. In another moment she would leave his bus. She would be alone again.
The bus stopped under bright lights. She glanced at her wristwatch. Only eight-thirty. The town would be wide-awake. The door swung open. She moved down the steps, then hung onto the railing, leaning.
Nothing really frightening about the town. She had been in strange towns before, but always had her car, and always as Stephanie Daniels, journalist for The Cheyenne Eagle. The realization again hit her that now she was Stephanie the runaway, with untrue stories to tell.
"Better get moving, there, Miss." The masculine voice came from behind.
Surprised, but knowing who had spoken she jumped down before looking back, "Yeah, guess I better." She noticed the young man's smile had not changed. It appeared sort of starched on, the cruelty still trying to hide behind the eyes, "Guess I just wasn't realizing where I am. Sorry."
"No harm to me." He stepped down beside her, emitting a sweet scent of cologne. The woman she thought had been with him was nowhere in sight. "But are you sure you're all right? I can't buy you a drink, can I? Or something to eat?"
"No thanks. I'll get accustomed to my new surroundings." It occurred to her that she had just told him, twice, that Quicksilver was not her home. She didn't think she liked him knowing that much about her.
"OK, then," he gave a slight bow that seemed to say 'you'll come around', "I'll maybe see you later."
"I doubt it." The nerve of the guy. He had already been denied twice and apparently he still thought he could just pick her up. Everything she said appeared to either encourage him or challenge him.
He maybe couldn't be blamed though. Her outfit likely suggested she wanted to be picked up. She had heard many girlfriends call cutoffs and halter-top just comfortable clothing not meant as seductive. But she knew better. According to a poll she had personally conducted in the Cheyenne area, eighty-five percent of the men questioned—plus quite a few women—admitted feeling most arousal not from seeing lots of skin and the skimpiest of bikini, but cutoffs and halter-top.
Anyway, the young man was gone. She retrieved her second piece of luggage, then walked into the depot, straight to the lockers, picked an obscure one, opened it and slipped in the suitcase, hoping she had all she needed from it.
The locker and suitcase could possibly be her home for a long time. She hoped she could drop in on it occasionally without appearing suspicious, and hoped she could find an unobtrusive room somewhere. Yeah. The room should have been reserved in advance from Cheyenne. First mistake undercover. Right. She wondered how many more she had made—or would make—before this new adventure was over. She shut the locker door, slipped the key into one of the backpack's many pockets, then looked around the depot until seeing a phone.
Might as well call Billy and let him know she was there and safe. She went to the phone, punched the AT&T 800-number, listened to the recording, then her personal number and charge number, then listened to the phone ring, and ring— after their sex was over she saw herself lying beside Billy in her nakedness. She felt violated. She wanted to stop those thoughts, those memories—she wanted to scream!
The phone kept ringing. She kept thinking.
Finally she had closed her legs and pulled the negligee cape over her, and sat up, "I leave for my undercover assignment tomorrow," her voice had sounded small, "Don't know when I'll be back."
"Yeah, ya told me, Doll. Oh, tomorrow, huh?" He kept his eyes on his game, began feeling for his book, "Gonna check out those freaky gay babes up in Dakota, huh?"
She hadn't considered the women as freaky, and Billy's comment angered her. She mainly thought those 'babes' just heard a different drumbeat. She couldn't imagine doing what they did—she thought of her vision—and wasn't even sure what they did, exactly, but didn't condemn them. She closed her eyes, tried seeing her vision again. Her mind was blank.
"Just make sure ya give me a ring every night, Doll, so I won't have to worry about ya."
The request sounded as if he didn't want to be bothered with worrying, "Calling every night could get expensive."
"So charge it. You've got a good credit rating."
Right. She paid the bills so why should Billy-boy worry? She got up, pulled the negligee tighter as if it would cover her, as if it mattered, and started toward the bathroom and a sit-down bath, her best part of their lovemaking, their sex, inadvertently crossing his line of sight.
"Out of the way, Stephanie! Damn it, anyway!"
She jumped, not to hurry out of his way but because his sharp cry had simply startled her. But the insult didn't matter. She pushed it away same as all the others. And strange how he called her 'Stephanie' when demanding something, and 'Doll' or some other cutesy name when wanting something. Inside the bathroom she quietly turned the lock, then turned both taps on, thinking only of the bath soothing her.
She added a bubble bath product, then untied the cape's bow, removed the papery thing, threw it, then the slippers, finally the bra. Billy hadn't even torn it off, nor demanded she did. The realization produced an ironic smile as she unsnapped it, drew it from her breasts as carefully as she had put it on—the way Billy used to—then threw it across the spacious bathroom.
Completely nude again she looked in the mirror—his mess! She saw it wet on the fluff of black hair between her legs, about to drip. She gasped, grabbed a washcloth, wet it, washed herself, reaching deep inside herself as she could. She did not want his mess in the bathwater with her!
She leaned against the sink and sighed, rinsed the cloth. Down the drain with him. Then she rung it out, was about to put it in the laundry hamper—No! Garbage. She tossed it, considered a second shower. But she was tired. A little of his mess wouldn't hurt, she supposed. Her eyes appeared sadder than ever. Her hair had lost its sheen completely. Her body looked skinny, and small, and felt small. But hot water would help. It always did. She found a clean washcloth and stirred, then shut off the cold and increased the hot to full. Soon now.
Finally the temperature suited her. She stepped in. Her foot disappeared in bubbles as heat embraced her halfway to her knee. Then both feet, then her thighs and buttocks as she lowered into the tranquilizing and lulling heat. Then she settled into the consoling depth clear to her throat.
The suds and bubbles reached her mouth. She closed her eyes and began forgetting the hurt, subconsciously wondering about women loving women, unconscious of the thoughts slowly inducing more of the subtle stirring within her psyche.
But the thoughts had left her subconscious psyche.
Now those thoughts were right on the edge of her consciousness. She was so lonely. She blanked her thoughts. But she was so lonely!
The phone was still ringing. She had no idea how many times. Strange the phone company had not come up with a recording to tell one when enough rings had happened, that the person being called was not home. She felt like crying. She felt like screaming. She was so lonely! If that guy from the bus hit on her again she would…she would, she didn't know what she would do.
She stared at the phone receiver, wondering, hurting. Then that mechanism in her stomach clicked and she stopped hurting. She hung up the receiver. Her relationship with Billy-boy had just ended.
She smiled to herself, and soon realized the depot was nearly empty. She had better disappear too before somebody noticed her. Outside she turned left, toward a cafe-bar she had seen upon arrival. She walked fast. She felt the cool night air sweeping past her bare legs, bare, as they had rarely been in public before, and her midriff, absolutely bare.
So intent in fully realizing the flirtatiousness of her outfit that, when she arrived at the cafe-bar, and walked right up onto the landing, head down—
The door swung open.
"Oh!" She fell backward, almost losing her balance.
"Well, if it isn't the young lady who doubted she'd see me again."
The young man's hat gave him a Dick Tracy look, or Aussie outback. Whichever, the look was flamboyant, disarming. Had she actually been a young girl on the move the man's charm would have dissolved all resistance during their first encounter. A young girl would have been fooled, yes, maybe even Stephanie would have been five years earlier, but no longer.
He stepped forward and offered his hand, "I'll steady you." He grasped one wrist and slipped an arm around her waist—similar to how Billy-boy had done it when they first met—and pulled her close, asserting a sort of dominance, but without actually touching her anywhere but her wrist and waist, lightly but firmly, "I'm Robbie, and I'm going to buy you something to eat and drink, and you're going to tell me all about why you're going around acting like such a tough little girl." There, he had picked her up. She didn't want to be picked up, but had no idea how to get away. It seemed to her right then that every time she had met a man—even though she no longer was fooled by them—he had asserted this same type of dominance. And had gotten his way.
With a firm pull he guided her through the door and into the bar, the noise, cigarette smoke, raucous laughter. Her new feelings of freedom pressed at her to tell him where to go. But old feelings of cowardice, and a little professionalism, said to wait. Weigh the situation. After all, like him or not, Robbie was her first contact.
QUICKSILVER BY GREYHOUND
At ten that morning Stephanie boarded a northbound bus. She slipped into the front seat opposite the driver and next to the window, then placed her backpack beside her, indicating, she hoped, that the seat was unavailable. Several hours to Quicksilver, hub of The Black Hills, and she didn't want involvement with a male passenger en route.
For certain not how she was dressed. A blue hanky held her hair in a wide ponytail. A red and white checked gingham halter-top was tied between her navel and breasts. Frayed blue denim cutoffs covered her middle. Ragged and dusty canvas shoes completed her, for lack of a better word, costume.
She opened the backpack and began checking her gear. Two sets of clean grubbies matching what she wore, extra canvas shoes, makeup, notebook and pens, small digital camera, small canteen of water, candy bars, three paperback romances, the latest Tom Clancy thriller, twenty Andrew Jackson bills, and
a Visa card sewn into the lining behind one of the pockets. As she rummaged, her mind returned to the night before, again. The black bra was now on her. She remembered thinking 'how futile' for Billy-boy would simply unsnap it, in haste maybe even break it, again, remove and throw it as if it were just that, something to rip away. If he even bothered removing anything at all from her. That had been happening a lot lately too.
She stopped rummaging. Her hands remained in the backpack, but her eyes were staring out the front bus window at nothing. She remembered wondering if she should tell Billy of her assignment confirmation before their lovemaking, or after. But what a joke. Lovemaking was not what they did. It simply was not. Her eyes returned to her hands. Everything was there. Most items should pass for a runaway's—
"Mind if I join you, Miss?"
She slammed the backpack shut and slipped it back into the other seat,
then stared up at a man about her own age but appearing extra mature. Something hidden behind the smiling curve of mouth and innocent thicket of light brown hair under a wide brimmed hat. But not quite hidden behind his dark blue eyes. A suppressed cruelty.
"Yes." She tried to hide her surprise, "I mean no. Sorry, but this seat is taken." With the backpack laying there the statement wasn't quite untrue.
The smile in his mouth intensified. Lines in his face deepened, maybe even darkening with what could have been a controlled rush of blood. Just enough to make her sure she was right in declining his request.
"Maybe next time." He nodded politely and started down the bus's aisle.
A slender young woman with short dark brown hair followed, close enough to be with him. Young? She thought the woman was young, yet, something about her. Too much powder? The woman didn't stop but did look at Stephanie with sharp brown eyes that seemed to dart toward her crotch for a second, her narrow face smiling, really looking, leering even.
Gone. Stephanie trembled, wasn't sure why. Neither the young man or woman had done anything, really, except be her first exposure to her new identity as Stephanie the runaway. He even appeared to have had a nice manner about him, at least could have been someone to talk to. But she didn't need that. What she needed was to go over her plan. Not much, just hitchhiking around the country, asking covert questions—except when she dressed professionally for the official interviews—but mostly just trying to appear as a young girl on the move.
The driver closed the door, in another moment roared the engine. Then they were moving, in a short time on the highway.
Her second piece of luggage rode below in the freight compartment. Mentally she began checking off those items: Laptop, cell phone, blank CDs, small flashlight, batteries, envelopes, postage, four changes of better clothes…again her mind wandered. She saw the pathetic little pile of black nylon and lace. The panties. She stepped into the leg holes, remembered wishing the scratchy caress from the flimsy material would turn her on, like it used to. It should have. But lately nothing was.
Almost nothing. Something was. But she held off thinking about it.
It was too different, too…she could not think of a word to describe her new feelings, but also knew her new feelings were not new. The feelings had been with her, subconsciously, for years. But lately they were approaching the surface, trying hard to break into the light.
And she kept trying hard to stop them.
Billy-boy's face broke into her thoughts. How he had looked four years earlier. Tantalizing, mischievous brown eyes. Rich tan. Wide-mouthed smile. A hooked nose giving him a masculinity distinct from most other men. Then his face changed to last night. Smile missing. Lips closed tight, intent on his baseball game. The rest of his body sagging, like hers, and pale, almost sickly looking. Four years had changed him. No, the easy living had. For soon after the gift of nylon and lace had come the announcement of quitting his job, rarely to work again except for a few days at a time.
Maybe the young man she had denied the seat would come back. Right then she needed to be noticed by a man, or thought she did. But not that young man. The feeling of suppressed cruelty in his eyes returned. Yes, she was right in denying the seat.
The world came back into focus. The Wyoming countryside was rushing past the bus window. What had she been thinking about? She put her hand to her mouth. Oh, yes. Inventorying. Better clothes, for the official interviews, and plenty more makeup to keep her looking teenager when she wasn't officially interviewing. At least younger than twenty-eight.
Not likely. She looked at her legs. Kind of bony. And the frayed part
of her cutoffs had pulled up, exposing the whiter parts of her thighs. Lucky she had started a tan that year, as most young girls did. Even with much media coverage about tanning and skin cancer they were still doing it. Stephanie hadn’t done much, just about ten minutes a day for two weeks, and mostly on her legs.
The flesh of her upper thighs was softer there too, with a whiteness and softness she had noticed on other women wearing cutoffs. Especially if they bent over or knelt, causing a display of flesh that she had impulsively stared at, and not just once but every time she saw it. Her heart gave a thump as she stared at her own groin, the whiteness, the softness, the mound of flesh between her legs pushing against the denim. Her heart thumped again, differently, the resonance settling deep within her stomach.
She didn't understand her subtle new feelings. They were too delicate,
too fleeting, but she accepted them as good because they made her feel good. Very good. And even though she sometimes tried to deny it she often felt an expanding sense of new freedom. She wasn't really sure when the thoughts and changes—if they really were changes—had begun. She just knew some heart strung mechanism had said 'stop, enough.'
Yes. Enough.
Finally it had seemed as if something deep inside her had germinated, taking her up with it into brighter light, suggesting to her that she alone was responsible for her own life, happiness, and whoever she chose, or did not choose. Billy-boy she did not choose, yet had allowed him four years of her life. Just four hours away from him had made that fact abundantly clear.
The realization lifted a great weight and made her smile. The fervor at which she had been staring at her own groin moderated. And maybe she didn't look nineteen, exactly, but she did look kind of slinky—Norm said so—and she would look even slinkier as her suntan deepened, which wouldn't take long once she
got out on the road.
Continuing the smile she thrust away from the seat and pulled the cutoffs down, covering herself slightly. But they pulled right away again. But she didn't worry about it and settled into the seat, plopped her chin on her right palm and stayed thus, smiling and dreaming, almost sleeping sometimes…
She saw her backside in the bathroom mirror. She no longer filled the panties. The skimpy thing almost hung on her. Billy hadn't even noticed her weight loss. Once he had kept track of every ounce, and knew where just by holding her. She choked in her daydream, then found herself actually choking. Then a few tears came. She dug in a very small purse hanging from around her head and shoulder, found a hanky and soaked away the tears, then lay back again. And the insistent daydream continued.
There were the slippers, making her look like an elf Billy once said.
She grabbed them and put them on. Then the cape, soft and seductive she once thought, but papery now, scratchy—hell, it always had been. She grabbed it and put it on with no ceremony. Just get it over with. With that unhappy expectation she entered the bedroom.
****
How could she remember such details? But over and over it played in her mind. How many times that day? She had just stepped into the bedroom when the crack of a bat hitting a baseball and Billy cheering hit her full in the face.
He lay on her queen-size bed, nude but for dingy shorts that he rarely changed, paperback open on his chest. She had come to accept his crudeness, but the television infuriated her. Soft music should be playing, like strings, instrumental, like Kenny G. Hell, it was her TV. She could do what she wanted, and walked to the bed, grabbed the remote, clicked it off."
"Hey!"
Her palm felt sweaty on the remote, "Billy…," her voice sounded so meek, "You can't want to watch baseball while we," her stomach sank, "make love."
"Wrong, Doll." He didn't sound like he cared at all, "Turn it back on."
She did, then walked to the edge of the bed as he threw the baby blue satin sheets she had paid way too much for half on the floor, and propped both pillows behind him. "Come on, Doll." He patted the bed beside him, "It won't hurt you to do it different one time."
'One' time?
His eyes stayed on the tube. She lay down, the noise of baseball ending what desire she had felt, if she had felt any. Now just sex. It occurred to her it had been just sex for a long time.
"Get me warmed up, will ya, Doll?" Billy slipped his shorts off, "And get yourself ready too, OK? I hate to miss any of this game, OK?"
She hated even answering, "How much is left?"
"Top of the fourth."
Her heart sank. She felt like leaving, and looked about for something to put around herself. She didn't want him to even see her.
"Come on, Babe. Humor me, will ya?"
She laughed to herself, grabbed the panties, thrust up, jerked the scratchy thing off and threw it across the room, then glanced at Billy. He had not noticed her little tantrum, the extra white flashing from her eyes nor the sadness following, the hurt. His eyes were on his fucking game!
Then she just lay staring at delicate etching in the suspended cloth print of THE TREE OF LIFE. A romantic thing she had spent a whole Saturday hanging, pounding endless tacks to form a cushiony latticework on the ceiling, only to have Billy-boy come home drunk after midnight and not even notice. Not for two weeks did he notice, then only to inform her it would catch dust.
That matter had brought tears, after he was asleep and wouldn't know. She felt like crying now. No, not crying, but something. Her last night home for awhile and her man gave little indication he even cared she was alive.
But, as in the past, she would push away her feelings, do what was necessary to warm him up, receive his orgasm, and be left alone to herself in her frustration. But she would do it, and began moving her hand toward the body beside her. She found the extension of that body, a tiny, shrunken, wizened thing, and began massaging without looking at it. Or him.
In the beginning, the extension—she had not thought of it then as that—had always achieved rigidity in seconds, sometimes plain never really shrank much. But no longer. Several minutes passed before she felt any life in it at all.
She didn't care. She just wanted it over. She had given him food, shelter, sex, and made him give her nothing in return, thinking love, compassion, respect, all would come naturally. In those early days it had.
Or had she only thought so?
"Can't seem to get it up, Doll. How 'bout a little help from that sweet mouth of yours?" He made his first movement. Nothing, really, just put his hand behind her head, tightened on her hair, and pulled, "You know what to do."
She did, and went, gladly. Just get it over with. She shut her eyes.
She didn't need to see. She knew what and where and opened her mouth, drew
the still limp extension into it, and began squeezing, stroking, massaging
with hands, lips, tongue.
A vision came. A bright place of green and blue and sunshine…and…women. In pairs, groups, some sitting, walking, but all looking away, backs turned, no faces. She saw only their backsides, but knew all were beautiful.
"Ahhhhh, that's it, Dolly, that's it." His hand tightened on her hair. She barely noticed. "You do that so damned good—the hell! That was a strike not a ball! Shit!"
Stephanie barely heard the insult. She had entered the one part of their relationship she still enjoyed, the dream world part. Only her fantasy was women.
The vision came stronger. Were some holding hands? Hugging? Kissing? She moved her hands and mouth stronger. She wanted to join in whatever the women were doing. A buzzing came into her head. She heard nothing more of Billy's game, didn't even realize when lust made him grip her hair. She only perceived the extension growing harder, hotter, making her want to join the women even more. She comprehended nothing else until her hair was pulled.
"Enough, Doll! Get up here and let me make you happy!"
She stopped but kept her eyes closed. Then she pulled herself next to him as he rolled, and opened herself, helped guide him—she popped her eyes for one second, saw him gaping back at the television, then gritted her teeth, gripped the extension, helped him aim, then received him. But not easily, for little of her own lubrication had liberated itself.
"Use some jelly next time, Stephanie—He's out! YEAH!"
She ignored him and thrust. She gripped his buttocks and used her own muscles to milk him and hurry him. She was too dry. Almost painful. But he wouldn't take long. He never did. Once her juices had flowed as a waterfall—
she saw the women again, some were holding each other—she pushed against him harder, heard him groaning, grunting, then surging, then his orgasm. At last. Then his collapse against her. Then his quick withdrawal. Then his roll off and away, back to the pillows, back to his game.
Their sex was over. And it had been nothing.
****
The memory dream ended. Stephanie's eyes popped open. She needed a man. A real man. That man she had denied the seat beside her. But she didn't want that man. She feared that man, at least thought she did. Yes, she did fear him, and she didn't want him anyway. She wanted a woman.
I want a woman.
Her stomach cramped. She could not believe the thought she had just had. She tried to blank it out. She could not have had that thought. She sat up, stared out the window at the countryside. It was beautiful. She kept staring at it.
She did not have that thought. What thought?
Time slipped by. She had kept track of road signs and knew approximately where they were. About five p.m. the highway began a wide arc and the four granite presidential faces of Mount Rushmore came into view.
Spectacular.
She felt her spirits rise even further. She thought of the monumental life work of that great sculptor, Gutzon Borglum, who died in 1941 and did not see his work completed. Yes, she had done her homework on The Black Hills and felt ready to tackle her assignment.
More time slipped by, until a sign lit by the bus's headlights, 'ENTERING QUICKSILVER, POPULATION 40,…
Forty thousand and something.
****
Stephanie began feeling sweat beads the moment they entered the glare of the small city's streetlights. Memory of the night before began pounding her head, then fading as memory of the more recent thought jabbed her—I want a woman.
Again she denied ever having that thought. She could not have thought that. She blanked her thoughts, and kept blanking them. She had to. She had a job to do. She needed a man. A good man. Blank the thoughts. Blank everything.
When she saw the lit Greyhound sign ahead she slipped the backpack onto her shoulders and got to her feet, hung onto the vertical bar just before the steps down.
The driver glanced at her, "Be careful there, young lady." For a second she felt protected by this adult. In another moment she would leave his bus. She would be alone again.
The bus stopped under bright lights. She glanced at her wristwatch. Only eight-thirty. The town would be wide-awake. The door swung open. She moved down the steps, then hung onto the railing, leaning.
Nothing really frightening about the town. She had been in strange towns before, but always had her car, and always as Stephanie Daniels, journalist for The Cheyenne Eagle. The realization again hit her that now she was Stephanie the runaway, with untrue stories to tell.
"Better get moving, there, Miss." The masculine voice came from behind.
Surprised, but knowing who had spoken she jumped down before looking back, "Yeah, guess I better." She noticed the young man's smile had not changed. It appeared sort of starched on, the cruelty still trying to hide behind the eyes, "Guess I just wasn't realizing where I am. Sorry."
"No harm to me." He stepped down beside her, emitting a sweet scent of cologne. The woman she thought had been with him was nowhere in sight. "But are you sure you're all right? I can't buy you a drink, can I? Or something to eat?"
"No thanks. I'll get accustomed to my new surroundings." It occurred to her that she had just told him, twice, that Quicksilver was not her home. She didn't think she liked him knowing that much about her.
"OK, then," he gave a slight bow that seemed to say 'you'll come around', "I'll maybe see you later."
"I doubt it." The nerve of the guy. He had already been denied twice and apparently he still thought he could just pick her up. Everything she said appeared to either encourage him or challenge him.
He maybe couldn't be blamed though. Her outfit likely suggested she wanted to be picked up. She had heard many girlfriends call cutoffs and halter-top just comfortable clothing not meant as seductive. But she knew better. According to a poll she had personally conducted in the Cheyenne area, eighty-five percent of the men questioned—plus quite a few women—admitted feeling most arousal not from seeing lots of skin and the skimpiest of bikini, but cutoffs and halter-top.
Anyway, the young man was gone. She retrieved her second piece of luggage, then walked into the depot, straight to the lockers, picked an obscure one, opened it and slipped in the suitcase, hoping she had all she needed from it.
The locker and suitcase could possibly be her home for a long time. She hoped she could drop in on it occasionally without appearing suspicious, and hoped she could find an unobtrusive room somewhere. Yeah. The room should have been reserved in advance from Cheyenne. First mistake undercover. Right. She wondered how many more she had made—or would make—before this new adventure was over. She shut the locker door, slipped the key into one of the backpack's many pockets, then looked around the depot until seeing a phone.
Might as well call Billy and let him know she was there and safe. She went to the phone, punched the AT&T 800-number, listened to the recording, then her personal number and charge number, then listened to the phone ring, and ring— after their sex was over she saw herself lying beside Billy in her nakedness. She felt violated. She wanted to stop those thoughts, those memories—she wanted to scream!
The phone kept ringing. She kept thinking.
Finally she had closed her legs and pulled the negligee cape over her, and sat up, "I leave for my undercover assignment tomorrow," her voice had sounded small, "Don't know when I'll be back."
"Yeah, ya told me, Doll. Oh, tomorrow, huh?" He kept his eyes on his game, began feeling for his book, "Gonna check out those freaky gay babes up in Dakota, huh?"
She hadn't considered the women as freaky, and Billy's comment angered her. She mainly thought those 'babes' just heard a different drumbeat. She couldn't imagine doing what they did—she thought of her vision—and wasn't even sure what they did, exactly, but didn't condemn them. She closed her eyes, tried seeing her vision again. Her mind was blank.
"Just make sure ya give me a ring every night, Doll, so I won't have to worry about ya."
The request sounded as if he didn't want to be bothered with worrying, "Calling every night could get expensive."
"So charge it. You've got a good credit rating."
Right. She paid the bills so why should Billy-boy worry? She got up, pulled the negligee tighter as if it would cover her, as if it mattered, and started toward the bathroom and a sit-down bath, her best part of their lovemaking, their sex, inadvertently crossing his line of sight.
"Out of the way, Stephanie! Damn it, anyway!"
She jumped, not to hurry out of his way but because his sharp cry had simply startled her. But the insult didn't matter. She pushed it away same as all the others. And strange how he called her 'Stephanie' when demanding something, and 'Doll' or some other cutesy name when wanting something. Inside the bathroom she quietly turned the lock, then turned both taps on, thinking only of the bath soothing her.
She added a bubble bath product, then untied the cape's bow, removed the papery thing, threw it, then the slippers, finally the bra. Billy hadn't even torn it off, nor demanded she did. The realization produced an ironic smile as she unsnapped it, drew it from her breasts as carefully as she had put it on—the way Billy used to—then threw it across the spacious bathroom.
Completely nude again she looked in the mirror—his mess! She saw it wet on the fluff of black hair between her legs, about to drip. She gasped, grabbed a washcloth, wet it, washed herself, reaching deep inside herself as she could. She did not want his mess in the bathwater with her!
She leaned against the sink and sighed, rinsed the cloth. Down the drain with him. Then she rung it out, was about to put it in the laundry hamper—No! Garbage. She tossed it, considered a second shower. But she was tired. A little of his mess wouldn't hurt, she supposed. Her eyes appeared sadder than ever. Her hair had lost its sheen completely. Her body looked skinny, and small, and felt small. But hot water would help. It always did. She found a clean washcloth and stirred, then shut off the cold and increased the hot to full. Soon now.
Finally the temperature suited her. She stepped in. Her foot disappeared in bubbles as heat embraced her halfway to her knee. Then both feet, then her thighs and buttocks as she lowered into the tranquilizing and lulling heat. Then she settled into the consoling depth clear to her throat.
The suds and bubbles reached her mouth. She closed her eyes and began forgetting the hurt, subconsciously wondering about women loving women, unconscious of the thoughts slowly inducing more of the subtle stirring within her psyche.
But the thoughts had left her subconscious psyche.
Now those thoughts were right on the edge of her consciousness. She was so lonely. She blanked her thoughts. But she was so lonely!
The phone was still ringing. She had no idea how many times. Strange the phone company had not come up with a recording to tell one when enough rings had happened, that the person being called was not home. She felt like crying. She felt like screaming. She was so lonely! If that guy from the bus hit on her again she would…she would, she didn't know what she would do.
She stared at the phone receiver, wondering, hurting. Then that mechanism in her stomach clicked and she stopped hurting. She hung up the receiver. Her relationship with Billy-boy had just ended.
She smiled to herself, and soon realized the depot was nearly empty. She had better disappear too before somebody noticed her. Outside she turned left, toward a cafe-bar she had seen upon arrival. She walked fast. She felt the cool night air sweeping past her bare legs, bare, as they had rarely been in public before, and her midriff, absolutely bare.
So intent in fully realizing the flirtatiousness of her outfit that, when she arrived at the cafe-bar, and walked right up onto the landing, head down—
The door swung open.
"Oh!" She fell backward, almost losing her balance.
"Well, if it isn't the young lady who doubted she'd see me again."
The young man's hat gave him a Dick Tracy look, or Aussie outback. Whichever, the look was flamboyant, disarming. Had she actually been a young girl on the move the man's charm would have dissolved all resistance during their first encounter. A young girl would have been fooled, yes, maybe even Stephanie would have been five years earlier, but no longer.
He stepped forward and offered his hand, "I'll steady you." He grasped one wrist and slipped an arm around her waist—similar to how Billy-boy had done it when they first met—and pulled her close, asserting a sort of dominance, but without actually touching her anywhere but her wrist and waist, lightly but firmly, "I'm Robbie, and I'm going to buy you something to eat and drink, and you're going to tell me all about why you're going around acting like such a tough little girl." There, he had picked her up. She didn't want to be picked up, but had no idea how to get away. It seemed to her right then that every time she had met a man—even though she no longer was fooled by them—he had asserted this same type of dominance. And had gotten his way.
With a firm pull he guided her through the door and into the bar, the noise, cigarette smoke, raucous laughter. Her new feelings of freedom pressed at her to tell him where to go. But old feelings of cowardice, and a little professionalism, said to wait. Weigh the situation. After all, like him or not, Robbie was her first contact.
HER STORY
3
HER STORY
"So that's about it." Stephanie swallowed the last bite of two hamburgers, then washed it down with draft beer. She had told Robbie what she and Norm had decided. She simply was out looking for a new drumbeat, a story very close to the truth, "And most of all, Robbie, no man is going to tell me what to do any longer."
Robbie's grin intensified, much like it had on the bus, a darkening, as
if controlling that rush of blood. The man intrigued her, somewhat, at the
same time frightened her, and she wasn't sure which emotion to listen to.
"How about a woman?" His grin turned serious. She was taken off guard, surprised to have actually found a lead involving women so early. Robbie gestured, "Jill."
Stephanie twisted in that direction. The woman who had followed him onto the bus got up from the next table—near enough to have probably heard everything she said—and started toward them.
At first glance Jill appeared feminine, and Stephanie didn't doubt she was female, but then she saw again that masculine-like leer in her dancing brown eyes. Even though Jill's eyes were looking straight into her own she just knew the woman was also staring at the soft skin of her upper thighs. She tried to retract herself into the cutoffs.
"Jill," Robbie reached and pulled Jill close, every bit the gentleman, "This is Stephanie, a young lady out looking for a new way of life. I'd like for you girls to get to know each other real good. And maybe then we can all be friends."
Robbie's domineering arrogance again caught Stephanie off guard. What he had said to Jill sounded like a direct order. She felt kind of ordered herself too. It sent a shiver down her back. But, still, this was a contact.
"Hi, Stephanie—"
"Do you have a place to sleep tonight, Stephanie?" Robbie didn't even wait for her to return the 'hello', and, of course, she didn't have a room, so, again, she didn't think, just hunched her shoulders.
"Fine. Jill and I called ahead and reserved adjoining motel rooms, and two beds per room. You can bunk with Jill. OK?"
Fortune seemed to be smiling. A contact, a place to sleep, but still she felt uneasy, but still, "All right."
"Shall we go then, Stephanie?" Jill lightly gripped her elbow, making her jump. "Robbie always likes to stay at the bar awhile." Her voice sounded smooth, professional, "That'll give you and me a chance to get to know each other before he joins us. OK?"
She hadn't really considered that Robbie would be joining them. But why wouldn't he? The two were traveling together. Under what exact circumstances she didn't know. Not likely a regular boy-girl relationship. So what then?
Jill smiled, "C'mon," then let go of her elbow and grasped her hand.
Without even thinking Stephanie accepted the hand, and just as well for her knees shook upon standing. Then Jill began leading her through the crowd with a grip she doubted she could break very easily. And everybody they went past looked right at her, a glance at Jill, then a real good look at her. Why? Did these people think they were seeing a young runaway girl getting picked up? Did they see it happen every night, that they could be so openly callous about it? And if they did see a runaway, or some other woman, get picked up every night, was it by these same two people?
Had Robbie been waiting for her at the door, knowing she would come there to eat? Had he opened the door just at that right instant? To force their meeting? Who was he?
They finally broke through the crowd. Stephanie wanted nothing more than to get out of the bar and into the night air. They slipped through the door, but still Jill didn't release her. She pulled away, or tried to.
"You don't mind me hanging onto your hand, do you, Stephanie?" Jill gave her a look that dug right into her heart, and she did mind but didn't know what to say. "Sometimes it's just nice to touch another human being," Jill said, "I get so lonely sometimes. Do you know what I mean?"
Yes, Stephanie knew, and stopped trying to pull away, "I don't mind, Jill." She even relaxed, and ever so slightly gripped Jill's hand back.
****
Standing under the hot spray, Stephanie finally had time to wonder what she had gotten into. Jill seemed nice enough, but hadn't yet seemed very interested in talking, mainly leering and touching. The word 'lesbian' had been going through her mind quite often.
After hurrying them to the motel Jill had suggested she take a shower, "Get," as she put it, "freshened up."
The hot water had done just that. She shut the water off and stepped out, grabbed a towel. The corner of the towel was too close, evidently, to a bottle of hand lotion on a glass shelf. The movement dislodged the bottle and it hit the floor. She retrieved the bottle and put it back on the shelf. Her mind recorded a slight stain where the bottle had been sitting, as if a regular spot. The oddness of the stain—and that motel management likely had not put it there—didn't occur to her right then. And why would it? Why would she even wonder about that? So she didn’t.
She wiped herself, then wrapped the towel around her. The mirror, illuminated by bright florescent side lights, showed her face to have gained color, already, and her eyes appeared bright, alive again. She loosened the towel and exposed her breasts. They seemed fuller and stood out strongly. Even the nipples appeared conscious again.
She smiled and her reflection smiled back, vibrantly. No doubt about it. Just hours into the world and she looked better, and suspected more than the hot water had caused it. Maybe internal chemicals that had lain dormant—for who knew how long?—were flowing again, renewing her.
But Jill's turn with the shower.
The motel towel would barely cover her, but she had decided not to pack a towel in her backpack. One big enough to cover her well would have taken too much room anyway. She pulled it back up above her breasts, tucked it, held it with her right forearm and hand, then gathered her clothes with her left hand. She felt a bit exposed for going into the room, but didn't want to dress again over a damp body, and she was heading for bed, and after all they were both girls. If Jill hadn't yet seen another female body then it was about time. Although she felt sure Jill had, many times.
As her hand touched the doorknob that strange feeling of being leered at by another female returned. Lesbian. She had refused to believe it earlier but now the likelihood nagged at her. Well, they were about the same size, five-feet, six inches, and 115 pounds, so she probably could handle Jill. But what about Robbie? And anyway, by then Jill certainly would be down to bath towel also. She turned the knob.
But no. By the lit lamp between their beds, still fully clothed, Jill lay on her side facing the other bed, where Stephanie had left her backpack open. Why oh why hadn't she put it on the far side? Just not thinking. Too trusting. She felt like going to the other side anyway and pulling the backpack across. Or would that seem offensive? And what would it matter if it did? But, feeling less covered than ever, she started forward, "Your turn." She hoped the veiled suggestion would sink in, "The water's really nice."
Jill turned her head and smiled. But the smile appeared to fall when she saw the towel. But she stared anyway, and not a general stare, like at all of her, nor even a subtle stare into her eyes while feasting on the body. No, the woman stared smack dab at her crotch, which Stephanie hoped was truly covered. She tried shrinking up into the towel, then got angry. What the hell had Jill expected, anyway? That she would have come from the shower stark naked?
The fallen smile on Jill's face didn't last long and the eyes soon danced again, "You're very pretty, Stephanie." Again the voice sounded professional, like she had once interviewed people for high positions, "I can understand why men would chase you, but not why they'd mistreat you."
So the woman had heard everything she told Robbie, "I'm sure I don't know either, Jill, ah…," she reached the edge of the bed, tossed her clothes to the foot, held onto the towel with both hands, faced Jill, hoping she would get up and head for the shower.
Instead, "Is your hair naturally black?"
"Yes, of course it is."
"Your skin is so fair I just had to wonder, and your eyes are so blue."
"But dark blue," Stephanie commented quickly, for some stupid reason feeling guilty about her fair skin and blue eyes.
Jill brightened and swung her legs over the side, then sat staring into the backpack. She definitely would have to wait for Jill to leave, if she ever did.
"What about your mound hair, Stephanie? Does that have the same rich sheen?"
Stephanie's stomach tightened. She had never been asked anything so personal, "Why…would you ask…that?"
"Just curious." Jill turned toward her and for just a split second the light hit her face differently. As she had observed on the bus there appeared to be a lot of powder, and some parts of her skin looked unnaturally smooth…like scars. "Blondes and redheads have been known to dye their hair black, you know. But I can't imagine why." With that, Jill gave her one more once-over—as if wishing the towel would fall down, or something—and at last stood, "I guess some fairy tale about men liking women with black hair and fair skin."
Stephanie didn't move as Jill walked between the two beds toward her. She just wanted the conversation to end. Jill had plenty of room, but at the last second she swayed right and brushed her, hesitating briefly during the contact, then finally stepped away and headed for her own luggage.
Stephanie settled on the bed and wedged her legs tight. She kept one hand and arm holding the towel up, the other holding it down. She wished she could already be in bed. She wondered if she should run away from these two people right then.
"What about your lips, dear?" Jill looked up from her luggage, smiled again, leered again, "With your fair skin and rich black hair, I would say your lips are nice and fleshy pink. Am I right?"
The brusque question caused every orifice in Stephanie’s body to draw in and shrivel. But Jill's smile turned sweet, innocent, as if she really had not even said such a thing. Stephanie finally forced a smile back.
"Well, see you later." Jill then removed some things from her luggage, including something in a plastic bag, flesh-colored, that looked—Stephanie blinked and looked away, tried blanking her mind. But the image of an adult toy, something she had seen in one of Billy's catalogs, stayed with her. Jill finally went to the bathroom and closed the door, to a crack, as if an invitation.
Stephanie threw her backpack together, dropped it on the floor, placed her clothes onto the backpack, jerked the bed covers down, snapped off the lamp, then sat staring into darkness and the crack of light from the bathroom. She badly wanted consultation with Norm.
But Norm was unavailable. She had joined these two with her eyes wide open, whoever they were, and maybe were nobody. Maybe all her wild imagination. But she doubted it.
She slipped under the covers quickly, then shed the towel and threw it to land with her clothes. Feeling the cool sheets on her nude body, she snuggled and snuggled, then moved to the other side of the bed, as if distance from Jill would help, and finally lay on her right side, her back toward the other bed, and drew her knees close to her stomach.
Feeling half safe, finally relaxed as possible, she listened to the running water. It lulled her. Sleep began coming. The hand lotion bottle popped into her mind. The stain. Not a fresh stain, but…sleep was coming. And she just didn't know what could be so important about that stain. Then that extraordinarily pleasant sensation began hitting her, that one of total relaxation just before real slumber.
HER STORY
"So that's about it." Stephanie swallowed the last bite of two hamburgers, then washed it down with draft beer. She had told Robbie what she and Norm had decided. She simply was out looking for a new drumbeat, a story very close to the truth, "And most of all, Robbie, no man is going to tell me what to do any longer."
Robbie's grin intensified, much like it had on the bus, a darkening, as
if controlling that rush of blood. The man intrigued her, somewhat, at the
same time frightened her, and she wasn't sure which emotion to listen to.
"How about a woman?" His grin turned serious. She was taken off guard, surprised to have actually found a lead involving women so early. Robbie gestured, "Jill."
Stephanie twisted in that direction. The woman who had followed him onto the bus got up from the next table—near enough to have probably heard everything she said—and started toward them.
At first glance Jill appeared feminine, and Stephanie didn't doubt she was female, but then she saw again that masculine-like leer in her dancing brown eyes. Even though Jill's eyes were looking straight into her own she just knew the woman was also staring at the soft skin of her upper thighs. She tried to retract herself into the cutoffs.
"Jill," Robbie reached and pulled Jill close, every bit the gentleman, "This is Stephanie, a young lady out looking for a new way of life. I'd like for you girls to get to know each other real good. And maybe then we can all be friends."
Robbie's domineering arrogance again caught Stephanie off guard. What he had said to Jill sounded like a direct order. She felt kind of ordered herself too. It sent a shiver down her back. But, still, this was a contact.
"Hi, Stephanie—"
"Do you have a place to sleep tonight, Stephanie?" Robbie didn't even wait for her to return the 'hello', and, of course, she didn't have a room, so, again, she didn't think, just hunched her shoulders.
"Fine. Jill and I called ahead and reserved adjoining motel rooms, and two beds per room. You can bunk with Jill. OK?"
Fortune seemed to be smiling. A contact, a place to sleep, but still she felt uneasy, but still, "All right."
"Shall we go then, Stephanie?" Jill lightly gripped her elbow, making her jump. "Robbie always likes to stay at the bar awhile." Her voice sounded smooth, professional, "That'll give you and me a chance to get to know each other before he joins us. OK?"
She hadn't really considered that Robbie would be joining them. But why wouldn't he? The two were traveling together. Under what exact circumstances she didn't know. Not likely a regular boy-girl relationship. So what then?
Jill smiled, "C'mon," then let go of her elbow and grasped her hand.
Without even thinking Stephanie accepted the hand, and just as well for her knees shook upon standing. Then Jill began leading her through the crowd with a grip she doubted she could break very easily. And everybody they went past looked right at her, a glance at Jill, then a real good look at her. Why? Did these people think they were seeing a young runaway girl getting picked up? Did they see it happen every night, that they could be so openly callous about it? And if they did see a runaway, or some other woman, get picked up every night, was it by these same two people?
Had Robbie been waiting for her at the door, knowing she would come there to eat? Had he opened the door just at that right instant? To force their meeting? Who was he?
They finally broke through the crowd. Stephanie wanted nothing more than to get out of the bar and into the night air. They slipped through the door, but still Jill didn't release her. She pulled away, or tried to.
"You don't mind me hanging onto your hand, do you, Stephanie?" Jill gave her a look that dug right into her heart, and she did mind but didn't know what to say. "Sometimes it's just nice to touch another human being," Jill said, "I get so lonely sometimes. Do you know what I mean?"
Yes, Stephanie knew, and stopped trying to pull away, "I don't mind, Jill." She even relaxed, and ever so slightly gripped Jill's hand back.
****
Standing under the hot spray, Stephanie finally had time to wonder what she had gotten into. Jill seemed nice enough, but hadn't yet seemed very interested in talking, mainly leering and touching. The word 'lesbian' had been going through her mind quite often.
After hurrying them to the motel Jill had suggested she take a shower, "Get," as she put it, "freshened up."
The hot water had done just that. She shut the water off and stepped out, grabbed a towel. The corner of the towel was too close, evidently, to a bottle of hand lotion on a glass shelf. The movement dislodged the bottle and it hit the floor. She retrieved the bottle and put it back on the shelf. Her mind recorded a slight stain where the bottle had been sitting, as if a regular spot. The oddness of the stain—and that motel management likely had not put it there—didn't occur to her right then. And why would it? Why would she even wonder about that? So she didn’t.
She wiped herself, then wrapped the towel around her. The mirror, illuminated by bright florescent side lights, showed her face to have gained color, already, and her eyes appeared bright, alive again. She loosened the towel and exposed her breasts. They seemed fuller and stood out strongly. Even the nipples appeared conscious again.
She smiled and her reflection smiled back, vibrantly. No doubt about it. Just hours into the world and she looked better, and suspected more than the hot water had caused it. Maybe internal chemicals that had lain dormant—for who knew how long?—were flowing again, renewing her.
But Jill's turn with the shower.
The motel towel would barely cover her, but she had decided not to pack a towel in her backpack. One big enough to cover her well would have taken too much room anyway. She pulled it back up above her breasts, tucked it, held it with her right forearm and hand, then gathered her clothes with her left hand. She felt a bit exposed for going into the room, but didn't want to dress again over a damp body, and she was heading for bed, and after all they were both girls. If Jill hadn't yet seen another female body then it was about time. Although she felt sure Jill had, many times.
As her hand touched the doorknob that strange feeling of being leered at by another female returned. Lesbian. She had refused to believe it earlier but now the likelihood nagged at her. Well, they were about the same size, five-feet, six inches, and 115 pounds, so she probably could handle Jill. But what about Robbie? And anyway, by then Jill certainly would be down to bath towel also. She turned the knob.
But no. By the lit lamp between their beds, still fully clothed, Jill lay on her side facing the other bed, where Stephanie had left her backpack open. Why oh why hadn't she put it on the far side? Just not thinking. Too trusting. She felt like going to the other side anyway and pulling the backpack across. Or would that seem offensive? And what would it matter if it did? But, feeling less covered than ever, she started forward, "Your turn." She hoped the veiled suggestion would sink in, "The water's really nice."
Jill turned her head and smiled. But the smile appeared to fall when she saw the towel. But she stared anyway, and not a general stare, like at all of her, nor even a subtle stare into her eyes while feasting on the body. No, the woman stared smack dab at her crotch, which Stephanie hoped was truly covered. She tried shrinking up into the towel, then got angry. What the hell had Jill expected, anyway? That she would have come from the shower stark naked?
The fallen smile on Jill's face didn't last long and the eyes soon danced again, "You're very pretty, Stephanie." Again the voice sounded professional, like she had once interviewed people for high positions, "I can understand why men would chase you, but not why they'd mistreat you."
So the woman had heard everything she told Robbie, "I'm sure I don't know either, Jill, ah…," she reached the edge of the bed, tossed her clothes to the foot, held onto the towel with both hands, faced Jill, hoping she would get up and head for the shower.
Instead, "Is your hair naturally black?"
"Yes, of course it is."
"Your skin is so fair I just had to wonder, and your eyes are so blue."
"But dark blue," Stephanie commented quickly, for some stupid reason feeling guilty about her fair skin and blue eyes.
Jill brightened and swung her legs over the side, then sat staring into the backpack. She definitely would have to wait for Jill to leave, if she ever did.
"What about your mound hair, Stephanie? Does that have the same rich sheen?"
Stephanie's stomach tightened. She had never been asked anything so personal, "Why…would you ask…that?"
"Just curious." Jill turned toward her and for just a split second the light hit her face differently. As she had observed on the bus there appeared to be a lot of powder, and some parts of her skin looked unnaturally smooth…like scars. "Blondes and redheads have been known to dye their hair black, you know. But I can't imagine why." With that, Jill gave her one more once-over—as if wishing the towel would fall down, or something—and at last stood, "I guess some fairy tale about men liking women with black hair and fair skin."
Stephanie didn't move as Jill walked between the two beds toward her. She just wanted the conversation to end. Jill had plenty of room, but at the last second she swayed right and brushed her, hesitating briefly during the contact, then finally stepped away and headed for her own luggage.
Stephanie settled on the bed and wedged her legs tight. She kept one hand and arm holding the towel up, the other holding it down. She wished she could already be in bed. She wondered if she should run away from these two people right then.
"What about your lips, dear?" Jill looked up from her luggage, smiled again, leered again, "With your fair skin and rich black hair, I would say your lips are nice and fleshy pink. Am I right?"
The brusque question caused every orifice in Stephanie’s body to draw in and shrivel. But Jill's smile turned sweet, innocent, as if she really had not even said such a thing. Stephanie finally forced a smile back.
"Well, see you later." Jill then removed some things from her luggage, including something in a plastic bag, flesh-colored, that looked—Stephanie blinked and looked away, tried blanking her mind. But the image of an adult toy, something she had seen in one of Billy's catalogs, stayed with her. Jill finally went to the bathroom and closed the door, to a crack, as if an invitation.
Stephanie threw her backpack together, dropped it on the floor, placed her clothes onto the backpack, jerked the bed covers down, snapped off the lamp, then sat staring into darkness and the crack of light from the bathroom. She badly wanted consultation with Norm.
But Norm was unavailable. She had joined these two with her eyes wide open, whoever they were, and maybe were nobody. Maybe all her wild imagination. But she doubted it.
She slipped under the covers quickly, then shed the towel and threw it to land with her clothes. Feeling the cool sheets on her nude body, she snuggled and snuggled, then moved to the other side of the bed, as if distance from Jill would help, and finally lay on her right side, her back toward the other bed, and drew her knees close to her stomach.
Feeling half safe, finally relaxed as possible, she listened to the running water. It lulled her. Sleep began coming. The hand lotion bottle popped into her mind. The stain. Not a fresh stain, but…sleep was coming. And she just didn't know what could be so important about that stain. Then that extraordinarily pleasant sensation began hitting her, that one of total relaxation just before real slumber.
RAPE AND KILL
4
RAPE AND KILL
No matter which way Stephanie turned she felt the cool sheets. She woke! Her eyes flew open wide. Nothing but dark. Where was she? She turned onto her back, saw the crack of light from the bathroom, and remembered, and vaguely remembered the lotion bottle, the not-fresh stain. Then she heard the running water.
Again the sound lulled her. She pulled the sheets to her neck and kept moving, snuggling, feeling the shocking coolness and strangeness of sleeping entirely in the nude. But a runaway teenager wouldn't likely carry a fancy nightgown in her
portmanteau, or would she? Maybe the most likely thing. She didn't know. She moved again, felt shocked by the coolness again, but deliciously so. She hadn't realized the joy of sleeping entirely in the nude, the freedom of it. She should run away more often. So she kept moving, delighting in the coolness, listening to the sound of running water.
Jill must have been in there for a long while. She had no idea of the time but guessed at least past two a.m. She glanced at the line of light again, then moved back to her right side, felt drowsy again so closed her eyes. But then felt completely awake again, and strived seeing through the darkness, and felt unnerved as the reality of her situation struck her yet again.
The bathroom door opened. A momentary splash of light. The lotion bottle and stain again flashed. Why did she keep thinking of that stupid stain?
Absolute darkness.
She didn't move. She listened for the sound of Jill crawling into the other bed. She listened so hard she barely noticed the sound of the door from the adjoining room. She had forgotten Robbie would have such easy access.
The door closed. Barely a sound—that stupid stain in her mind again! Then she thought she felt the covers on her own bed being turned down.
A tremor struck between her shoulder blades, then evolved into body-wide gooseflesh as she just knew the covers on her bed were being turned down. She stopped breathing—that stain—
The turn-down stopped. What was it about that stain? Then the sheet partially under her was tugged—the stain. She wanted to grab the sheet and hold on, but didn't dare, and didn't know why she didn't dare, and didn't dare breathe—that stain is old!
The sheet pulled out from under her causing a surge of cooler air on her back and buttocks. Then the mattress gave a little, all sounds and movements being so slight as to hardly be more than imagination. She wished to God they were imagination!
More mattress movement. Someone had crawled into bed with her. She just knew it. Her eyes strained. Nothing but black. Then the covers were drawn back up, more quickly, covering her again but not stopping the gooseflesh.
Silence. Seconds passed. Maybe minutes—maybe nothing! Imagination! She wished, and wished but no sound or movement ensued but she knew another body was coming closer. She felt the heat from it, the aura.
Then came a horrifying comprehension. The bottle had left a stain because it had sat there for days, maybe weeks. Something they had forgotten to clean up and hide. These people lived in this motel. They brought women here often. The bus ride was simply a ploy of innocence—
A hand pushed under Stephanie's right side, forcefully, skillfully pressing onto her right breast with forearm and left breast with hand. At the same instant another hand slipped over her and against her lower stomach, and in still the same instant something hot and slippery began probing in the cleft of her buttocks, then her anus, then pushing, penetrating, the hand in her stomach jerking in, breaking her resistance to the thing sliding into her. And finally the voice, whispering, "I'm sorry, Stephanie."
Pain. She wanted to scream, but instead continued holding her breath, holding her rectal muscles against the alien thing pushing, forcing, breaking into her.
An extra hard jerk in her stomach and the thing fully entered her for she felt a warm body against her back and buttocks. Then the hand in her stomach moved to between her legs. Fingers pushed into her, then a grip and squeeze on her mound, the other hand and arm pressing, crushing both breasts, in effect enveloping her, impaling her, making her helpless.
A light flashed on. Footsteps. She blinked from the brightness and saw Robbie, the mask of smile, the dropped trousers, the hairy chest and groin. And a huge penis, the shiny blue head just inches from her face. She grabbed a breath, then jammed her eyes and mouth shut tight.
The sheet was thrown down. A hand grabbed her hair and pulled, hurting her. Again she wanted to scream but kept her mouth closed, gritting her teeth.
"You have been so cooperative, little honeybunch." The scornful voice of Robbie brought the final reality, "Just three smiling, consenting adults." He jerked her head toward him hard, so close she felt the heat from the penis. "This is how we from exotic, faraway places get our little girls these days, Stephanie. We don't waste time being nice about it. It doesn't pay. Now open that tight little mouth of yours!" He squeezed the handful of hair, "If I pull much harder, sweetie, whole patches of your scalp could come off!"
He squeezed harder, making her mouth fly open with a cry of pain. Then
he lifted her head and leaned close, discharging a sickening reek of alcoholic breath, "You see, little one? If you don't cooperate, always, and willingly, then we feel disposed to disfigure, and then do rough plastic surgery, and then disfigure again. You should see Jill's face under the right light, or her scarred body, or her ripped head! Jill used to be an executive secretary, a gorgeous platinum blonde—now open that mouth and be grateful!"
She did and the penis slid in as if lubricated, filling her mouth and throat, shutting off her breath, gagging her—
"Straighten out that neck!"
She did and the penis slid in further, absolutely choking her. But a strange feeling was beginning in her throat, a numbing feeling, something in the lubricant.
"You see, Stephanie?" Robbie relaxed his grip and for a second stroked
her hair, "There are ways to do everything."
He began doing something then that she had never experienced, just a contraction and expansion of his penis, "We'll let the muscle relaxant work for a bit," he said, "Great products these days from that magical adult industry."
She didn't care. She didn't want to know about the adult industry. She just knew her throat was growing numb, and she couldn't breathe. The thing in her rectum pulled out partway, then pushed right back in, out, in, out, and the fingers between her legs began stroking, squeezing and penetrating harder, and the arm and hand on her breasts gripped her painfully. But she hardly noticed the pain. She hardly noticed anything but the cruel voice continuing to tell her why it was happening.
"People are getting more warped and weird, Stephanie. Both men and women. They want all kinds of warped and weird sex, and the little boys and girls to provide it. Not that anything we're doing is warped and weird. The chic thing today is women in their late twenties to late fifties. And you're about in that age group. Close anyway, even though you're trying to pass for a teeny-bopper, and of course I have to wonder why you’re doing that."
He gripped her hair tight again, forced his penis even further into her throat, "But I can see you're old, babe, and honest to glory I can see why both men and women would want you. Something about beauty and age mixed. Warped and weird, you know? Just the idea that you're older but still lip-smackin'. And you want to know something else?"
She started to gag, fiercely, felt her nose begin running.
"Do you?!" He pulled and lifted her by her hair, "Straighten out that neck! Answer! Do you want to know?!"
She barely heard him over pain and choking, but through desperation somehow moved her head up and down.
"That's good that you want to know, sweet baby. So I'll tell you. Had we taken the time to talk nicely you maybe even would have said 'OK'”
"But I doubt it and there would have gone all that precious time, so…."
He pulled again on her hair, lifting her until she swore her neck would break, opening her throat even more, then stepped back, began pulling out, then pushed in, pulled out, in, out, in, not quite giving her a chance to breathe. She began gagging horribly.
"Breathe through your nose, bitch! Damn it!" He squeezed her nose, then pulled it, jamming his finger against her face, "Like this!" He began snuffing his nose, blowing out, "Do it right, baby, or you'll lose hair! I mean it!"
Survival now. She had to do it right or be maimed, or die. She tried harder, snuffing her nose, blowing it.
"That's right, baby, that's right!" Robbie laughed, sounded happy, pleased with her. Maybe now he would let her go. But no, the penis continued its assault on her throat.
"See, baby, see? When we find you sweet things straight from Mid-America, country fresh USA, we give you the works right from the start. Makes for great discipline!"
The man sounded insane. Then his in-out pulses came faster, less in total control. His voice wasn’t even steady anymore, "OK, sweet baby, my load's gonna go right down your gullet, and you won't taste or feel a thing. Jill! Get ready—Now!"
For Stephanie there was no gratification as Robbie discharged into her throat, nor from Jill squeezing her breasts and mound, and whatever she was doing from the rear, obviously a dildo releasing a load of hot water.
At that point most of their captive trainees likely were so worn out and hysterical that all they wanted was to hide under the covers in shame and horror. But not so with Stephanie. And since the brutal attack had awakened no sexual response—a true story for too long—she was simply collecting herself, waiting, planning.
Then it was over.
Jill relaxed her grips and pulled out. And Robbie pulled out, and Robbie would probably remain relaxed for at least a few seconds, and Jill, she didn't know about Jill. She felt sorry for Jill. But Jill was probably hopelessly hung up on her pimp and would do anything for him. So, she would make her move for survival.
"Hold your bowels, bitch." In harsh breaths Robbie's voice came in a whisper.
She must have done well.
"You get to the bathroom. No goddamn messes!"
Fuck you.
She rolled onto her back and slammed her left elbow down into Jill's stomach. Jill screamed. Then she used the thrust of her elbow to throw her fist into Robbie's groin. She felt at least one of his testicles smash into his thigh, bringing a yelp of pain. But she knew that pain wouldn't last long.
Cripple him.
She had to hurt him bad or she would not escape. She rolled off the bed onto her knees, seeing only one thing. The hideous pimp who had ruined Jill and would have ruined herself.
Cripple him and run.
"You dirty bastard!" her voice came low.
Some inherent chemical was loose inside her. Some unrestrained, impassive reflex driving her to strike out not only to protect herself, save herself, but to regain for herself, for Jill, for all misused women everywhere some semblance of dignity.
Then she was touching him, holding one slimy, sweaty testicle in each hand, then squeezing them, pulling, seeing his enlarged, unbelieving eyes realizing what she was going to do in the next instant before he could even strike her.
She squeezed and jerked hard, harder than she had ever done anything.
Gurgling in her intestines—she didn't care. Fuck it! She kept jerking and squeezing, jerking, squeezing. Vaguely she heard a shrieking voice. Barely she noticed hands weakly, disorientedly beating her head, Jill's hands beating her from behind. She just kept jerking, squeezing, jerking, squeezing.
Like mushy clay in her hands, like two scrambled egg yolks. She released him, clasped her hands together, drew back and slammed them into his groin with all her might.
The screeching man fell into the wall, then slid to the floor. A sobbing, screaming Jill rushed to him, fell on him with her arms hugging him. Stephanie stood, and for one second felt sorry for the woman, but felt nothing for the writhing man, his mouth open and drooling.
One more second she stared at the pathetic heaped pair. The shrieking man. The slave woman. Then she grabbed her clothes, her backpack, her shoes, then to the door, out, down the hall and out a side door, running, into the dark night.
RAPE AND KILL
No matter which way Stephanie turned she felt the cool sheets. She woke! Her eyes flew open wide. Nothing but dark. Where was she? She turned onto her back, saw the crack of light from the bathroom, and remembered, and vaguely remembered the lotion bottle, the not-fresh stain. Then she heard the running water.
Again the sound lulled her. She pulled the sheets to her neck and kept moving, snuggling, feeling the shocking coolness and strangeness of sleeping entirely in the nude. But a runaway teenager wouldn't likely carry a fancy nightgown in her
portmanteau, or would she? Maybe the most likely thing. She didn't know. She moved again, felt shocked by the coolness again, but deliciously so. She hadn't realized the joy of sleeping entirely in the nude, the freedom of it. She should run away more often. So she kept moving, delighting in the coolness, listening to the sound of running water.
Jill must have been in there for a long while. She had no idea of the time but guessed at least past two a.m. She glanced at the line of light again, then moved back to her right side, felt drowsy again so closed her eyes. But then felt completely awake again, and strived seeing through the darkness, and felt unnerved as the reality of her situation struck her yet again.
The bathroom door opened. A momentary splash of light. The lotion bottle and stain again flashed. Why did she keep thinking of that stupid stain?
Absolute darkness.
She didn't move. She listened for the sound of Jill crawling into the other bed. She listened so hard she barely noticed the sound of the door from the adjoining room. She had forgotten Robbie would have such easy access.
The door closed. Barely a sound—that stupid stain in her mind again! Then she thought she felt the covers on her own bed being turned down.
A tremor struck between her shoulder blades, then evolved into body-wide gooseflesh as she just knew the covers on her bed were being turned down. She stopped breathing—that stain—
The turn-down stopped. What was it about that stain? Then the sheet partially under her was tugged—the stain. She wanted to grab the sheet and hold on, but didn't dare, and didn't know why she didn't dare, and didn't dare breathe—that stain is old!
The sheet pulled out from under her causing a surge of cooler air on her back and buttocks. Then the mattress gave a little, all sounds and movements being so slight as to hardly be more than imagination. She wished to God they were imagination!
More mattress movement. Someone had crawled into bed with her. She just knew it. Her eyes strained. Nothing but black. Then the covers were drawn back up, more quickly, covering her again but not stopping the gooseflesh.
Silence. Seconds passed. Maybe minutes—maybe nothing! Imagination! She wished, and wished but no sound or movement ensued but she knew another body was coming closer. She felt the heat from it, the aura.
Then came a horrifying comprehension. The bottle had left a stain because it had sat there for days, maybe weeks. Something they had forgotten to clean up and hide. These people lived in this motel. They brought women here often. The bus ride was simply a ploy of innocence—
A hand pushed under Stephanie's right side, forcefully, skillfully pressing onto her right breast with forearm and left breast with hand. At the same instant another hand slipped over her and against her lower stomach, and in still the same instant something hot and slippery began probing in the cleft of her buttocks, then her anus, then pushing, penetrating, the hand in her stomach jerking in, breaking her resistance to the thing sliding into her. And finally the voice, whispering, "I'm sorry, Stephanie."
Pain. She wanted to scream, but instead continued holding her breath, holding her rectal muscles against the alien thing pushing, forcing, breaking into her.
An extra hard jerk in her stomach and the thing fully entered her for she felt a warm body against her back and buttocks. Then the hand in her stomach moved to between her legs. Fingers pushed into her, then a grip and squeeze on her mound, the other hand and arm pressing, crushing both breasts, in effect enveloping her, impaling her, making her helpless.
A light flashed on. Footsteps. She blinked from the brightness and saw Robbie, the mask of smile, the dropped trousers, the hairy chest and groin. And a huge penis, the shiny blue head just inches from her face. She grabbed a breath, then jammed her eyes and mouth shut tight.
The sheet was thrown down. A hand grabbed her hair and pulled, hurting her. Again she wanted to scream but kept her mouth closed, gritting her teeth.
"You have been so cooperative, little honeybunch." The scornful voice of Robbie brought the final reality, "Just three smiling, consenting adults." He jerked her head toward him hard, so close she felt the heat from the penis. "This is how we from exotic, faraway places get our little girls these days, Stephanie. We don't waste time being nice about it. It doesn't pay. Now open that tight little mouth of yours!" He squeezed the handful of hair, "If I pull much harder, sweetie, whole patches of your scalp could come off!"
He squeezed harder, making her mouth fly open with a cry of pain. Then
he lifted her head and leaned close, discharging a sickening reek of alcoholic breath, "You see, little one? If you don't cooperate, always, and willingly, then we feel disposed to disfigure, and then do rough plastic surgery, and then disfigure again. You should see Jill's face under the right light, or her scarred body, or her ripped head! Jill used to be an executive secretary, a gorgeous platinum blonde—now open that mouth and be grateful!"
She did and the penis slid in as if lubricated, filling her mouth and throat, shutting off her breath, gagging her—
"Straighten out that neck!"
She did and the penis slid in further, absolutely choking her. But a strange feeling was beginning in her throat, a numbing feeling, something in the lubricant.
"You see, Stephanie?" Robbie relaxed his grip and for a second stroked
her hair, "There are ways to do everything."
He began doing something then that she had never experienced, just a contraction and expansion of his penis, "We'll let the muscle relaxant work for a bit," he said, "Great products these days from that magical adult industry."
She didn't care. She didn't want to know about the adult industry. She just knew her throat was growing numb, and she couldn't breathe. The thing in her rectum pulled out partway, then pushed right back in, out, in, out, and the fingers between her legs began stroking, squeezing and penetrating harder, and the arm and hand on her breasts gripped her painfully. But she hardly noticed the pain. She hardly noticed anything but the cruel voice continuing to tell her why it was happening.
"People are getting more warped and weird, Stephanie. Both men and women. They want all kinds of warped and weird sex, and the little boys and girls to provide it. Not that anything we're doing is warped and weird. The chic thing today is women in their late twenties to late fifties. And you're about in that age group. Close anyway, even though you're trying to pass for a teeny-bopper, and of course I have to wonder why you’re doing that."
He gripped her hair tight again, forced his penis even further into her throat, "But I can see you're old, babe, and honest to glory I can see why both men and women would want you. Something about beauty and age mixed. Warped and weird, you know? Just the idea that you're older but still lip-smackin'. And you want to know something else?"
She started to gag, fiercely, felt her nose begin running.
"Do you?!" He pulled and lifted her by her hair, "Straighten out that neck! Answer! Do you want to know?!"
She barely heard him over pain and choking, but through desperation somehow moved her head up and down.
"That's good that you want to know, sweet baby. So I'll tell you. Had we taken the time to talk nicely you maybe even would have said 'OK'”
"But I doubt it and there would have gone all that precious time, so…."
He pulled again on her hair, lifting her until she swore her neck would break, opening her throat even more, then stepped back, began pulling out, then pushed in, pulled out, in, out, in, not quite giving her a chance to breathe. She began gagging horribly.
"Breathe through your nose, bitch! Damn it!" He squeezed her nose, then pulled it, jamming his finger against her face, "Like this!" He began snuffing his nose, blowing out, "Do it right, baby, or you'll lose hair! I mean it!"
Survival now. She had to do it right or be maimed, or die. She tried harder, snuffing her nose, blowing it.
"That's right, baby, that's right!" Robbie laughed, sounded happy, pleased with her. Maybe now he would let her go. But no, the penis continued its assault on her throat.
"See, baby, see? When we find you sweet things straight from Mid-America, country fresh USA, we give you the works right from the start. Makes for great discipline!"
The man sounded insane. Then his in-out pulses came faster, less in total control. His voice wasn’t even steady anymore, "OK, sweet baby, my load's gonna go right down your gullet, and you won't taste or feel a thing. Jill! Get ready—Now!"
For Stephanie there was no gratification as Robbie discharged into her throat, nor from Jill squeezing her breasts and mound, and whatever she was doing from the rear, obviously a dildo releasing a load of hot water.
At that point most of their captive trainees likely were so worn out and hysterical that all they wanted was to hide under the covers in shame and horror. But not so with Stephanie. And since the brutal attack had awakened no sexual response—a true story for too long—she was simply collecting herself, waiting, planning.
Then it was over.
Jill relaxed her grips and pulled out. And Robbie pulled out, and Robbie would probably remain relaxed for at least a few seconds, and Jill, she didn't know about Jill. She felt sorry for Jill. But Jill was probably hopelessly hung up on her pimp and would do anything for him. So, she would make her move for survival.
"Hold your bowels, bitch." In harsh breaths Robbie's voice came in a whisper.
She must have done well.
"You get to the bathroom. No goddamn messes!"
Fuck you.
She rolled onto her back and slammed her left elbow down into Jill's stomach. Jill screamed. Then she used the thrust of her elbow to throw her fist into Robbie's groin. She felt at least one of his testicles smash into his thigh, bringing a yelp of pain. But she knew that pain wouldn't last long.
Cripple him.
She had to hurt him bad or she would not escape. She rolled off the bed onto her knees, seeing only one thing. The hideous pimp who had ruined Jill and would have ruined herself.
Cripple him and run.
"You dirty bastard!" her voice came low.
Some inherent chemical was loose inside her. Some unrestrained, impassive reflex driving her to strike out not only to protect herself, save herself, but to regain for herself, for Jill, for all misused women everywhere some semblance of dignity.
Then she was touching him, holding one slimy, sweaty testicle in each hand, then squeezing them, pulling, seeing his enlarged, unbelieving eyes realizing what she was going to do in the next instant before he could even strike her.
She squeezed and jerked hard, harder than she had ever done anything.
Gurgling in her intestines—she didn't care. Fuck it! She kept jerking and squeezing, jerking, squeezing. Vaguely she heard a shrieking voice. Barely she noticed hands weakly, disorientedly beating her head, Jill's hands beating her from behind. She just kept jerking, squeezing, jerking, squeezing.
Like mushy clay in her hands, like two scrambled egg yolks. She released him, clasped her hands together, drew back and slammed them into his groin with all her might.
The screeching man fell into the wall, then slid to the floor. A sobbing, screaming Jill rushed to him, fell on him with her arms hugging him. Stephanie stood, and for one second felt sorry for the woman, but felt nothing for the writhing man, his mouth open and drooling.
One more second she stared at the pathetic heaped pair. The shrieking man. The slave woman. Then she grabbed her clothes, her backpack, her shoes, then to the door, out, down the hall and out a side door, running, into the dark night.
RUNNING
5
RUNNING
Stephanie ran, and ran, and kept running, through the parking lot, down an alley, through shrubbery and onto a lawn, getting slapped by branches, stirring dogs that began barking after she passed. She didn't care if the whole neighborhood awoke or the whole town. She just wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and the screeching madman.
The sound followed her for a long way, then stopped. Maybe he would go into permanent shock, or die. Maybe Jill wouldn't even try to help him. Maybe Jill would run away too now. But maybe she wouldn't. Maybe Robbie was all she had. For a few gasping seconds Stephanie felt different for what she had done. But not sorry.
Wind about gone. She burst onto a floodplain of short smooth grass, then moonlight on water. She dropped her clothes and backpack and waded right in. She felt sand on the soles of her feet. For all she knew it was the city's settling pond. She didn't care. Anything would wash from her what she was feeling.
The water reached her lower thighs. Deep enough. She flung herself in a shallow dive, swam out a way, then allowed herself to settle to the bottom, letting the cold but not icy water come clear to her neck, cleansing and comforting her.
So she sat, just enjoying the feel of the water, the gritty sand, the healing of the wetness, warmer than she had thought. Moments passed. She kept sitting, her body underwater, thinking nothing, barely noticed that several sirens were wailing, that they finally converged in one area. She only cared that she was alive, though becoming aware of some sore spots. Nothing really serious she didn't think.
The two had performed the rape professionally, surgically. But of course they wouldn't have damaged her for she was to have become their merchandise.
The moon slipped under a cloud. She kept sitting but allowed her head to rise a little more. She stared, slowly beginning to recognize where she might be. The lights of Quicksilver showed mostly from one direction. Likely she was in a bordering lake and had run all the way out of the main town. Good. She should be safe there, until daylight, when she could plan her next move.
Which would be what? She didn't know, and didn't want to tell anyone of what had happened to her. Most likely Robbie and Jill were simply pimps from some faraway coastal city. The true reason for the missing women, some anyway, and had nothing to do with the possible lesbian camp. She hoped not anyway,
and felt lesbians were not cruel. At least as a rule not.
Jill was the exception. Probably not even a true lesbian but only did what her pimp told her, probably thinking things would get better, but never did until she found herself just plain caught with the man. Again she felt sorry for Jill. She wished there was something she could do for her, and hoped the elbow in the stomach had not hurt too much.
She felt certain that pimps were the true reason for the missing women. But extremely unlikely that Robbie and Jill worked alone. Just too many missing women. But her assigned story was not to be about pimps. She hoped she had heard the last of them. Definitely she would check out a bit closer anyone else who approached her. No more Robbie-boys. She laughed, and began scooping handfuls of sand and rubbing them all over herself. Right, no more Robbie-boys. And right then her own Billy-boy seemed like some immature child she had known far back, someone never really important. And never would be again.
A strange feeling washed over her. A personal identity like she had never known and it felt good. Billy-boy would be dropped as easily as if he had never existed.
The reflections of city lights glittered. The moon returned, adding its glow to the inky water. She smiled again, felt ready to happily burst inside. Yes, she had found independence and now would keep it, and remain in her undercover job. She would travel to all the towns and small cities where the missing women and girls came from. An occasional call to the bus company would get her luggage shipped, her girl-detective-journalist portmanteau.
She smiled broadly and splashed the water, then stood, dived, swam a long way out and back again, then out again and hung there, lightly dog-paddling.
Yes, she would write her story, whatever it took.
****
Stephanie checked the local newspaper that morning but saw only that an unidentified man had been found dead in a motel.
The news shocked her. A man dead. She must have torn his skin somehow and, in shock, he bled to death. She felt remorse for probably having caused a death, but not sorry for killing the man. Surely Jill would return to wherever she had come from now. A good candidate for the lesbian camp, where she would be cared for—perhaps even loved—by her own kind.
But what kind was that? She didn't know, but had decided on a plan. Interview the men abducted. No more Stephanie the runaway for awhile. The list of names and phone numbers was a place to start.
RUNNING
Stephanie ran, and ran, and kept running, through the parking lot, down an alley, through shrubbery and onto a lawn, getting slapped by branches, stirring dogs that began barking after she passed. She didn't care if the whole neighborhood awoke or the whole town. She just wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and the screeching madman.
The sound followed her for a long way, then stopped. Maybe he would go into permanent shock, or die. Maybe Jill wouldn't even try to help him. Maybe Jill would run away too now. But maybe she wouldn't. Maybe Robbie was all she had. For a few gasping seconds Stephanie felt different for what she had done. But not sorry.
Wind about gone. She burst onto a floodplain of short smooth grass, then moonlight on water. She dropped her clothes and backpack and waded right in. She felt sand on the soles of her feet. For all she knew it was the city's settling pond. She didn't care. Anything would wash from her what she was feeling.
The water reached her lower thighs. Deep enough. She flung herself in a shallow dive, swam out a way, then allowed herself to settle to the bottom, letting the cold but not icy water come clear to her neck, cleansing and comforting her.
So she sat, just enjoying the feel of the water, the gritty sand, the healing of the wetness, warmer than she had thought. Moments passed. She kept sitting, her body underwater, thinking nothing, barely noticed that several sirens were wailing, that they finally converged in one area. She only cared that she was alive, though becoming aware of some sore spots. Nothing really serious she didn't think.
The two had performed the rape professionally, surgically. But of course they wouldn't have damaged her for she was to have become their merchandise.
The moon slipped under a cloud. She kept sitting but allowed her head to rise a little more. She stared, slowly beginning to recognize where she might be. The lights of Quicksilver showed mostly from one direction. Likely she was in a bordering lake and had run all the way out of the main town. Good. She should be safe there, until daylight, when she could plan her next move.
Which would be what? She didn't know, and didn't want to tell anyone of what had happened to her. Most likely Robbie and Jill were simply pimps from some faraway coastal city. The true reason for the missing women, some anyway, and had nothing to do with the possible lesbian camp. She hoped not anyway,
and felt lesbians were not cruel. At least as a rule not.
Jill was the exception. Probably not even a true lesbian but only did what her pimp told her, probably thinking things would get better, but never did until she found herself just plain caught with the man. Again she felt sorry for Jill. She wished there was something she could do for her, and hoped the elbow in the stomach had not hurt too much.
She felt certain that pimps were the true reason for the missing women. But extremely unlikely that Robbie and Jill worked alone. Just too many missing women. But her assigned story was not to be about pimps. She hoped she had heard the last of them. Definitely she would check out a bit closer anyone else who approached her. No more Robbie-boys. She laughed, and began scooping handfuls of sand and rubbing them all over herself. Right, no more Robbie-boys. And right then her own Billy-boy seemed like some immature child she had known far back, someone never really important. And never would be again.
A strange feeling washed over her. A personal identity like she had never known and it felt good. Billy-boy would be dropped as easily as if he had never existed.
The reflections of city lights glittered. The moon returned, adding its glow to the inky water. She smiled again, felt ready to happily burst inside. Yes, she had found independence and now would keep it, and remain in her undercover job. She would travel to all the towns and small cities where the missing women and girls came from. An occasional call to the bus company would get her luggage shipped, her girl-detective-journalist portmanteau.
She smiled broadly and splashed the water, then stood, dived, swam a long way out and back again, then out again and hung there, lightly dog-paddling.
Yes, she would write her story, whatever it took.
****
Stephanie checked the local newspaper that morning but saw only that an unidentified man had been found dead in a motel.
The news shocked her. A man dead. She must have torn his skin somehow and, in shock, he bled to death. She felt remorse for probably having caused a death, but not sorry for killing the man. Surely Jill would return to wherever she had come from now. A good candidate for the lesbian camp, where she would be cared for—perhaps even loved—by her own kind.
But what kind was that? She didn't know, but had decided on a plan. Interview the men abducted. No more Stephanie the runaway for awhile. The list of names and phone numbers was a place to start.
INTERVIEWS
6
INTERVIEWS
By mid-September, Stephanie had interviewed many of the families of the missing women. No information surfaced except confirmation of Norm's original statistics about the unusual ages of the women, which went along with what Robbie had told her about wanting older women for prostitution. She considered going to the law with her findings, but of course her findings were not official, and, likely, with Robbie out of the picture the disappearances would stop anyway. And even if more people were involved, which was likely, surely they would now move on to another part of the country. Not much she could do about anything.
She also had interviewed all but one of the men abducted by the legendary Dakota Amazons, by phone and most also in person. Eleven in all, six bachelors, five married, all well-built specimens of the male half of the species, and all upstanding citizens. Whatever that meant. Oh yes, and all perfect gentlemen.
Yet all had allowed themselves to be picked up by unknown women. Not at bars though, and that fact had been their main saving grace, their main defense that they truly were upstanding citizens and gentlemen. Especially the married ones. No, the unplanned meetings always took place at tourist traps, shopping malls, nice restaurants, even in the men’s own places of business.
Today the last interviewee and the most recently abducted. Dressed in bluejeans and white top with sleeves reaching to her elbows and a dark earth-tone vest, Stephanie was trying to look basically like a tourist, and waited for the man in the restaurant of the Select Best Motel in Spencer, Wyoming, the fringe of Norm's sixty-mile radius.
From her booth she had full view of the parking lot. A forest-green BMW convertible pulled in. A tall man emerged, looked in all directions, as they all had, as if feeling guilty of something, then stepped from between parked vehicles and walked quickly toward the motel.
Little doubt this was her man. Stephanie smiled to herself at his actions, then took two deep breaths through her nose and released slowly. She had learned to breathe through her nose long before Robbie. Here the technique was for relaxing her whole body, an exercise meant to help her composure. No matter how censurable the man looked and acted, as they all had, she didn't want to break out laughing.
With sober face and one more glance behind him, the man pushed through the outside door, appeared to look at himself in the reflective glass, and brushed his hair. Oh yes, meeting an unknown woman he wanted to look his best. Hmmm. Maybe not so censurable. Had their roles been switched Stephanie guessed she would have brushed at her hair too.
Even so she had to stifle a chuckle, and took another quick breath through her nose. What was happening to her? Was she beginning to hate all men? Hate was not the word she didn't think, but the interviews with all the men, not just the abductees, had opened her eyes. Most had hit on her, and all had appeared self-serving, stuck on themselves, just plain hot shit. But hate them?
No, too strong. And she kept falling back to Norm. Norm was a good man. There were some. But she had not met any lately. And this guy—just noticing her, not smiling—did his face color? Was he embarrassed at the subject of their meeting? Was it possible he really was a gentleman and upstanding? Was this one of the married ones?
For a second Stephanie felt her own face coloring as unplanned thoughts about a possible future personal relationship raced through her. His eyes were soft-looking, he had a gentle expression, and so damn well-built and handsome. She tried another deep breath. It choked her. She coughed.
Shit!
"Ms. Daniels?" The man stopped at her booth.
"Yes." She grabbed her napkin and swept it over her mouth, cleared her throat, stood, extended her hand, "Ramsey?"
"Yes. Ramsey." He gripped her hand. It was warm. Soft. She wondered if he did any physical work, then chided herself for wondering something that had nothing to do with the subject of the interview. "You said on the phone that I don’t have to reveal my last name."
"No, of course not." Why wouldn’t you want to? Do you have something to hide? Are you an asshole? She again chided herself for the unprofessional thoughts. What was wrong with her? This man was a gentleman, and so damn
good-looking, "Please, sit down, Ramsey."
They slipped into the booth across from each other. She thought he held onto her hand longer than necessary, which both irritated and intrigued her. A waitress came. Thank goodness. They both ordered coffee, he a caramel roll, she whole wheat toast. Then small talk ensued about the weather, and she asked about his BMW. A mistake, if she was looking for his good side, because the man obviously was in love with his vehicle.
Their coffee arrived in a quart-sized covered pitcher, then their food. Likely the waitress wouldn't approach again unless asked, so Stephanie made her request, "So, Ramsey, would you tell me of your experience, please?"
"You mean with the Amazons…."
Did a smirk, or something, cross his face? She supposed so, and it probably was harmless. After all, depending on how one looked at it, a great deal of humor could be seen in what had happened to him. "Yes, I believe we're referring to the same thing."
"Well," he rolled his eyes and glanced at the ceiling, then shook his head. Two short shakes to each side, something she had seen Billy-boy do when describing women he had met during his short jobs, another subtle way of putting her down. She guessed what was coming from Ramsey. "This great-looking babe walks into my office one day—I'm in real estate—and says she's interested in buying a small rural property."
"Can you describe her?" Stephanie removed a pen and notebook from her purse.
"Yeah, fabulous brunette curls, clear down, uh—oh, several inches below her shoulders, really great-looking hair."
She could feel him looking at her own hair, which was curled rather nicely that day, she thought, but she didn't look up, "Anything else?"
"She was about, oh, five-feet-eight or nine, slim, but no way was she skinny. No way."
Stephanie looked up. The man appeared lost in thought. "What about her clothing? Dress? Jeans? Business suit?"
"Sorry." He looked sad, like he felt he had really lost something, "I don't remember…, not a dress, but, she did look professional."
"But nothing more about her appearance?"
"No, nothing…, just that she was so…” He let out a shallow breath, his eyes looked wet for a second or two, “Well, you know…."
"All right. She came in, then what?"
"We didn't talk long. She said she had some other errands to take care of, but could we talk further at her motel? And, of course, that was all right with me."
Of course. Stephanie no longer wondered if the man was married or single. She wouldn't want him.
"I guess it did occur to me to wonder if I might be getting picked up. But hell, I'm single, and there was a possible sale in the offing, so, yes, I went to her motel."
At this point in the men’s stories Stephanie had always just as soon not heard the rest, but knew something different could possibly come to light so she never stopped the men from telling all.
"She met me at the door dressed in the whitest, sheerest, negligee I ever hope to see in this life. I mean, I thought I had died and gone to heaven."
"What about right then, Ramsey? You still don't remember anything else about her appearance?"
"She had red lips, and I think they were natural. I mean I think she wore no makeup at all, just like under the negligee. Nothing. A natural beauty." He shook his head, "But by now I was drooling, Ms. Daniels." But his face had gone serious, "I admit it. I was taken for a ride. But her sex appeal was simply overwhelming. The only thing I remember for certain is that she was beautiful."
His demeanor had changed. Stephanie suspected that he did feel some guilt and remorse, not that he thought he had done anything wrong. Well, not that she thought so either, exactly. But that he had allowed his hormones to go completely into overdrive. Maybe he wasn't such a terrible guy after all.
"I did show her some available properties, and we did discuss them. But it wasn't long till she just asked point blank if I wanted to go to bed with her." He seemed genuinely embarrassed.
"And then?"
"Well, I just peeled off my clothes and jumped into bed with her. And that's the last time I saw her face. Hell, I don't even remember the prick of the needle, and my adrenalin was already racing so hard that I barely remember the jet ride."
"Jet ride?"
"Yeah, speed. High-speed adrenalin. You know, barbiturates. Haven't you ever been put to sleep in a hospital, for surgery?"
"No, I guess I haven't."
"You have an experience to look forward to then. It's like a motor racing, it's like your head becomes part of the engine, it's like a first kiss, a first love."
Now Stephanie knew. She had experienced that ride, but so far back, definitely not with Billy, and wondered if she would ever experience it again.
"But, about to kiss that gorgeous babe I was already on the jet ride, so when the needle hit," he opened both hands and arms, "Well, I just considered it part of the ride."
So basically the man was human. He had been taken advantage of, gotten his genes stolen, and then got dumped on a lonely country road. With more compassion she listened to the remainder of his story. Waking up, handcuffed, blindfolded, a blood draw, then he walked to a vehicle, got a ride to somewhere, then he had to walk again, then the needle again, and another jet ride. Then later waking up, strapped down and still blindfolded. No voices except to give him orders. 'Get up.' 'Walk.' He swore being prodded with a gun barrel. 'Remove your clothes. All of them.' 'Lie down.' 'Get an erection—' "I couldn't believe it." He laughed, very human-sounding, "I mean, what did these babes think? That I could just do that? Because they told me to?"
"So you didn't?"
"Oh, I did all right. It's not like I was fearing for my life or anything, even if that was a gun in my ribs."
"So you did."
"Yeah. But I got a little help, ya know? With a mouth," he took a breath, glanced away for a second, "I just hope that mouth was feminine. But I have no reason to think there were any males around. After I got," his eyes stared for a second, his head nodded forward, twice, his lips tightened, "the erection, they greased me good. Then I could feel another person climbing onto whatever I was laying on. Goddamn it, it better have been a woman." He took another breath, his eyes got fixed again, he looked down, "I hope it was that gorgeous brunette."
He got quiet then, put his hand over his mouth, continued to stare, glanced out the window, then went on, "And I had an orgasm all right." He laughed, slightly, "I've never gone in for bondage things like that, at least I assume that sort of thing would be called bondage." He glanced at her, as if she—a journalist, or was it because she was a woman?—should know.
"Yes, Ramsey, I would say, probably, bondage."
"Anyway, being blindfolded, tied down, helpless, well, it was the most explosive orgasm I've ever had." Again he got quiet, then finally went on to tell he remembered one hand-fed meal, a gentle feminine voice from the one feeding him, then a walk, "It was through woods, that I can guarantee you."
"How so?"
"Smells. I can't say what I smelled, but it was woods for certain sure, and quite a ways, miles anyway. And then another ride, and then they opened the door, told me to get out, then untied me and told me to leave the blindfold on—Oh, yeah, and then she poured beer all over me, even in my hair. Cripes….”"
"Did anyone ever hurt you?"
"No. Except for the needle, which didn't hurt that much, and then of course my pride."
Of course. "So how do you feel about your experience, Ramsey?" Stephanie leaned toward him, "I mean how do you really feel?" She hoped he would say something profound.
He didn't. "Well, hell, all they had to do was ask. I would have given my sperm to all of'em, if that's all they wanted. They didn't have to kidnap me."
Of course not. "Would you press charges, if you could?"
No hesitation, "No. She—they, whoever they were—gave me the greatest orgasm ever."
And that was how all the interviews had gone. Even men not abducted—
but had heard about her interviews—had sounded like they wished they would have been. One even volunteered his genes. That was, if she ever broke the story, and the women—whoever they were—still wanted men. But Stephanie doubted the women—whoever they were—would ever call for volunteers.
****
Stephanie continued to travel within Norm's sixty-mile radius. She interviewed more families of the missing women, she rented cars or hitchhiked, changing to whatever clothing seemed appropriate depending on who she interviewed. She visited liquor stores, bus depots, video arcades and any other place known for sprouting gossip and stories. She received propositions from other recruiting pimps, cowboys, tourists, bikers, local lesbians, and uncovered story after story
about the Dakota Amazons. But nothing with real substance.
By late-September she had sent several discs of article notes to her newspaper
mail box. But it appeared the legend would exist only as that. A legend.
It had taken time to catch him home, but the break-up phone call finally reached Billy. He had protested, whined, threatened to track her down. But surely he wouldn't even if he could. Surely he didn't care that much, and she knew he had no money. Money, if no other reason, would stop him. But, she realized, money would also bring him, as he had nothing without her, at least nothing he was willing to earn himself.
And each little contact she had with a man added to that change she felt growing inside her. That change she still refused to acknowledge, again, even in the privacy of her own mind. But it was there, in her subconscious. And she knew it involved desiring women over men. And she knew that some occurrence, the meeting of some certain person, some woman, would bring everything— including honesty to herself—crashing from her subconscious. Whether she was ready, or not.
At least she was beginning to find herself hoping something like that would happen. And soon.
INTERVIEWS
By mid-September, Stephanie had interviewed many of the families of the missing women. No information surfaced except confirmation of Norm's original statistics about the unusual ages of the women, which went along with what Robbie had told her about wanting older women for prostitution. She considered going to the law with her findings, but of course her findings were not official, and, likely, with Robbie out of the picture the disappearances would stop anyway. And even if more people were involved, which was likely, surely they would now move on to another part of the country. Not much she could do about anything.
She also had interviewed all but one of the men abducted by the legendary Dakota Amazons, by phone and most also in person. Eleven in all, six bachelors, five married, all well-built specimens of the male half of the species, and all upstanding citizens. Whatever that meant. Oh yes, and all perfect gentlemen.
Yet all had allowed themselves to be picked up by unknown women. Not at bars though, and that fact had been their main saving grace, their main defense that they truly were upstanding citizens and gentlemen. Especially the married ones. No, the unplanned meetings always took place at tourist traps, shopping malls, nice restaurants, even in the men’s own places of business.
Today the last interviewee and the most recently abducted. Dressed in bluejeans and white top with sleeves reaching to her elbows and a dark earth-tone vest, Stephanie was trying to look basically like a tourist, and waited for the man in the restaurant of the Select Best Motel in Spencer, Wyoming, the fringe of Norm's sixty-mile radius.
From her booth she had full view of the parking lot. A forest-green BMW convertible pulled in. A tall man emerged, looked in all directions, as they all had, as if feeling guilty of something, then stepped from between parked vehicles and walked quickly toward the motel.
Little doubt this was her man. Stephanie smiled to herself at his actions, then took two deep breaths through her nose and released slowly. She had learned to breathe through her nose long before Robbie. Here the technique was for relaxing her whole body, an exercise meant to help her composure. No matter how censurable the man looked and acted, as they all had, she didn't want to break out laughing.
With sober face and one more glance behind him, the man pushed through the outside door, appeared to look at himself in the reflective glass, and brushed his hair. Oh yes, meeting an unknown woman he wanted to look his best. Hmmm. Maybe not so censurable. Had their roles been switched Stephanie guessed she would have brushed at her hair too.
Even so she had to stifle a chuckle, and took another quick breath through her nose. What was happening to her? Was she beginning to hate all men? Hate was not the word she didn't think, but the interviews with all the men, not just the abductees, had opened her eyes. Most had hit on her, and all had appeared self-serving, stuck on themselves, just plain hot shit. But hate them?
No, too strong. And she kept falling back to Norm. Norm was a good man. There were some. But she had not met any lately. And this guy—just noticing her, not smiling—did his face color? Was he embarrassed at the subject of their meeting? Was it possible he really was a gentleman and upstanding? Was this one of the married ones?
For a second Stephanie felt her own face coloring as unplanned thoughts about a possible future personal relationship raced through her. His eyes were soft-looking, he had a gentle expression, and so damn well-built and handsome. She tried another deep breath. It choked her. She coughed.
Shit!
"Ms. Daniels?" The man stopped at her booth.
"Yes." She grabbed her napkin and swept it over her mouth, cleared her throat, stood, extended her hand, "Ramsey?"
"Yes. Ramsey." He gripped her hand. It was warm. Soft. She wondered if he did any physical work, then chided herself for wondering something that had nothing to do with the subject of the interview. "You said on the phone that I don’t have to reveal my last name."
"No, of course not." Why wouldn’t you want to? Do you have something to hide? Are you an asshole? She again chided herself for the unprofessional thoughts. What was wrong with her? This man was a gentleman, and so damn
good-looking, "Please, sit down, Ramsey."
They slipped into the booth across from each other. She thought he held onto her hand longer than necessary, which both irritated and intrigued her. A waitress came. Thank goodness. They both ordered coffee, he a caramel roll, she whole wheat toast. Then small talk ensued about the weather, and she asked about his BMW. A mistake, if she was looking for his good side, because the man obviously was in love with his vehicle.
Their coffee arrived in a quart-sized covered pitcher, then their food. Likely the waitress wouldn't approach again unless asked, so Stephanie made her request, "So, Ramsey, would you tell me of your experience, please?"
"You mean with the Amazons…."
Did a smirk, or something, cross his face? She supposed so, and it probably was harmless. After all, depending on how one looked at it, a great deal of humor could be seen in what had happened to him. "Yes, I believe we're referring to the same thing."
"Well," he rolled his eyes and glanced at the ceiling, then shook his head. Two short shakes to each side, something she had seen Billy-boy do when describing women he had met during his short jobs, another subtle way of putting her down. She guessed what was coming from Ramsey. "This great-looking babe walks into my office one day—I'm in real estate—and says she's interested in buying a small rural property."
"Can you describe her?" Stephanie removed a pen and notebook from her purse.
"Yeah, fabulous brunette curls, clear down, uh—oh, several inches below her shoulders, really great-looking hair."
She could feel him looking at her own hair, which was curled rather nicely that day, she thought, but she didn't look up, "Anything else?"
"She was about, oh, five-feet-eight or nine, slim, but no way was she skinny. No way."
Stephanie looked up. The man appeared lost in thought. "What about her clothing? Dress? Jeans? Business suit?"
"Sorry." He looked sad, like he felt he had really lost something, "I don't remember…, not a dress, but, she did look professional."
"But nothing more about her appearance?"
"No, nothing…, just that she was so…” He let out a shallow breath, his eyes looked wet for a second or two, “Well, you know…."
"All right. She came in, then what?"
"We didn't talk long. She said she had some other errands to take care of, but could we talk further at her motel? And, of course, that was all right with me."
Of course. Stephanie no longer wondered if the man was married or single. She wouldn't want him.
"I guess it did occur to me to wonder if I might be getting picked up. But hell, I'm single, and there was a possible sale in the offing, so, yes, I went to her motel."
At this point in the men’s stories Stephanie had always just as soon not heard the rest, but knew something different could possibly come to light so she never stopped the men from telling all.
"She met me at the door dressed in the whitest, sheerest, negligee I ever hope to see in this life. I mean, I thought I had died and gone to heaven."
"What about right then, Ramsey? You still don't remember anything else about her appearance?"
"She had red lips, and I think they were natural. I mean I think she wore no makeup at all, just like under the negligee. Nothing. A natural beauty." He shook his head, "But by now I was drooling, Ms. Daniels." But his face had gone serious, "I admit it. I was taken for a ride. But her sex appeal was simply overwhelming. The only thing I remember for certain is that she was beautiful."
His demeanor had changed. Stephanie suspected that he did feel some guilt and remorse, not that he thought he had done anything wrong. Well, not that she thought so either, exactly. But that he had allowed his hormones to go completely into overdrive. Maybe he wasn't such a terrible guy after all.
"I did show her some available properties, and we did discuss them. But it wasn't long till she just asked point blank if I wanted to go to bed with her." He seemed genuinely embarrassed.
"And then?"
"Well, I just peeled off my clothes and jumped into bed with her. And that's the last time I saw her face. Hell, I don't even remember the prick of the needle, and my adrenalin was already racing so hard that I barely remember the jet ride."
"Jet ride?"
"Yeah, speed. High-speed adrenalin. You know, barbiturates. Haven't you ever been put to sleep in a hospital, for surgery?"
"No, I guess I haven't."
"You have an experience to look forward to then. It's like a motor racing, it's like your head becomes part of the engine, it's like a first kiss, a first love."
Now Stephanie knew. She had experienced that ride, but so far back, definitely not with Billy, and wondered if she would ever experience it again.
"But, about to kiss that gorgeous babe I was already on the jet ride, so when the needle hit," he opened both hands and arms, "Well, I just considered it part of the ride."
So basically the man was human. He had been taken advantage of, gotten his genes stolen, and then got dumped on a lonely country road. With more compassion she listened to the remainder of his story. Waking up, handcuffed, blindfolded, a blood draw, then he walked to a vehicle, got a ride to somewhere, then he had to walk again, then the needle again, and another jet ride. Then later waking up, strapped down and still blindfolded. No voices except to give him orders. 'Get up.' 'Walk.' He swore being prodded with a gun barrel. 'Remove your clothes. All of them.' 'Lie down.' 'Get an erection—' "I couldn't believe it." He laughed, very human-sounding, "I mean, what did these babes think? That I could just do that? Because they told me to?"
"So you didn't?"
"Oh, I did all right. It's not like I was fearing for my life or anything, even if that was a gun in my ribs."
"So you did."
"Yeah. But I got a little help, ya know? With a mouth," he took a breath, glanced away for a second, "I just hope that mouth was feminine. But I have no reason to think there were any males around. After I got," his eyes stared for a second, his head nodded forward, twice, his lips tightened, "the erection, they greased me good. Then I could feel another person climbing onto whatever I was laying on. Goddamn it, it better have been a woman." He took another breath, his eyes got fixed again, he looked down, "I hope it was that gorgeous brunette."
He got quiet then, put his hand over his mouth, continued to stare, glanced out the window, then went on, "And I had an orgasm all right." He laughed, slightly, "I've never gone in for bondage things like that, at least I assume that sort of thing would be called bondage." He glanced at her, as if she—a journalist, or was it because she was a woman?—should know.
"Yes, Ramsey, I would say, probably, bondage."
"Anyway, being blindfolded, tied down, helpless, well, it was the most explosive orgasm I've ever had." Again he got quiet, then finally went on to tell he remembered one hand-fed meal, a gentle feminine voice from the one feeding him, then a walk, "It was through woods, that I can guarantee you."
"How so?"
"Smells. I can't say what I smelled, but it was woods for certain sure, and quite a ways, miles anyway. And then another ride, and then they opened the door, told me to get out, then untied me and told me to leave the blindfold on—Oh, yeah, and then she poured beer all over me, even in my hair. Cripes….”"
"Did anyone ever hurt you?"
"No. Except for the needle, which didn't hurt that much, and then of course my pride."
Of course. "So how do you feel about your experience, Ramsey?" Stephanie leaned toward him, "I mean how do you really feel?" She hoped he would say something profound.
He didn't. "Well, hell, all they had to do was ask. I would have given my sperm to all of'em, if that's all they wanted. They didn't have to kidnap me."
Of course not. "Would you press charges, if you could?"
No hesitation, "No. She—they, whoever they were—gave me the greatest orgasm ever."
And that was how all the interviews had gone. Even men not abducted—
but had heard about her interviews—had sounded like they wished they would have been. One even volunteered his genes. That was, if she ever broke the story, and the women—whoever they were—still wanted men. But Stephanie doubted the women—whoever they were—would ever call for volunteers.
****
Stephanie continued to travel within Norm's sixty-mile radius. She interviewed more families of the missing women, she rented cars or hitchhiked, changing to whatever clothing seemed appropriate depending on who she interviewed. She visited liquor stores, bus depots, video arcades and any other place known for sprouting gossip and stories. She received propositions from other recruiting pimps, cowboys, tourists, bikers, local lesbians, and uncovered story after story
about the Dakota Amazons. But nothing with real substance.
By late-September she had sent several discs of article notes to her newspaper
mail box. But it appeared the legend would exist only as that. A legend.
It had taken time to catch him home, but the break-up phone call finally reached Billy. He had protested, whined, threatened to track her down. But surely he wouldn't even if he could. Surely he didn't care that much, and she knew he had no money. Money, if no other reason, would stop him. But, she realized, money would also bring him, as he had nothing without her, at least nothing he was willing to earn himself.
And each little contact she had with a man added to that change she felt growing inside her. That change she still refused to acknowledge, again, even in the privacy of her own mind. But it was there, in her subconscious. And she knew it involved desiring women over men. And she knew that some occurrence, the meeting of some certain person, some woman, would bring everything— including honesty to herself—crashing from her subconscious. Whether she was ready, or not.
At least she was beginning to find herself hoping something like that would happen. And soon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
