Although the bedpost could have provided support for his venture, the skinny hairy man was too drunk to notice. He balanced on one leg and regarded the sock – his arch-enemy of the moment – curled enticingly around his toes. He grabbed for it, missed, grabbed again, finally managed to pull it up at least as far as his ankle, took that for a victory, put his foot back on the floor just in time to avoid a fall. He remembered the voluptuous girl on the bed, frowned at her, began the search for his other sock.
Judy Burton returned his frown with a smile, thought: You skinny fuck, just put the money on the dresser and get the hell out of here. The man ignored her telepathic message, continued rummaging around the room for his sock. Judy took a pull on her stale bourbon and soda. The money, she thought, just leave the money. The man had gotten everything he wanted, and more, the bruises on her thighs were testimony. Now it was her turn. She had to have that money, it was well that mattered.
Judy tried to forget the bruises on her legs, the tiny stinging welts on her back, the throbbing ache in her pussy. She tried, but she could not. She was still too new at this business, had not yet hardened her mind and body to the brutal mistreatment she was expected to take. In the course of just a few months every part of her had been violated, but she had never complained. She had no one to complain to, no one who would care.
Yes, she thought, this one had outdone them all. He looked so harmless now, so comical and silly, crawling drunkenly around her room, but just a few moments before he had been anything but funny. Judy's pain came roaring back as she remembered his gouging fingernails and rock-hard fists – she had been astounded that someone so skinny could hit so hard – and finally the savage penetration of his prick, without warning, a sudden, ripping spear in her still-dry and unprepared cunt. He could have at least waited until she was ready, could have fingered and toyed with her gently to get the juices flowing, but that was what happened when you made love, and love was not a part of this man's constitution. This man, or any man.
Judy wondered how anyone had ever come up with the phrase "making love". What this man had done, what all men did, they did out of hate and lust – love was nowhere to be found. When he had taken her nipple between his teeth and bitten so hard that blood had begun to flow; was that love? When he had brought his open hand, then his fists, crashing down on her body and face, was that love? And when he had entered her, tearing at her tight, tender flesh, forcing himself further and further in even though she had begged him to stop, to wait until she was ready; was that love?
No, Judy thought, there was no love in this business. "Making love" indeed!
The aching in her pussy continued while the john went on looking for his sock. He bad crawled under the bed, was bumping his head and swearing, causing little earthquakes in the mattress. Judy wished that he would leave, hoped that he wasn't so drunk that he would forget what he paid for and ask for more. She knew she would not have to submit to him again, even if he asked for it, even if he demanded, but she hated the thought of having to argue, having to force him to leave, or having to call Slackjaws to throw him out. Probably, though, she wouldn't have to worry – most of these johns were good for one brief go-around and nothing more, and there was nothing to indicate that this one was any different.
Tom, at least, had been better than that, even if he was a skunk in every other respect.
Tom. Before she had met Tom, Judy had been exactly like thousands of other eighteen-year-old girls, full in the body but hopelessly naive, dreaming her dreams of escape, trusting everyone, waiting for the man who would change her life in a day. Tom had changed her life, all right, but in a way that she never would have imagined. Tom had done this to her, Tom and that other skunk, Jay Snyder. She hated both of them.
Tom was always in her mind, even now, even while this puny trick stood in front of her with his prick caught in his zipper. No matter where she went, no matter what she did, it was Tom, always Tom who occupied her thoughts.
Her mind raced back to the little run-down theater in Bisbee, Arizona, the shabby marquee, the noise of hundreds of screaming brats waiting to get in for the Saturday matinee, the copper miners and cowboys who always stared at her as they bought their tickets, then made crude, back-slapping jokes as they walked away. She had hated that theater, had worked there only to make enough money so that she could get out of Bisbee and go to college in Tucson. She had been an excellent student in high school, had won a scholarship to the University of Arizona, but the scholarship was not enough to pay for everything, and her parents were unable to help her. So she had worked at the theater, hating it ("How many?" "Three, please." "Three dollars; show starts in ten minutes."), and had waited impatiently for the summer to end.
The U of A, she knew, was a rich boys' party school. She had been to Tucson, had seen the Cadillacs and Alfa Romeos and Ferraris parked outside the fraternity houses, had watched in amazement as trucks delivered cases of liquor to the back doors. On the campus she had stared at the tanned, blond boys and handsome bearded professors, so different than the grubby sons of miners she had known all her life. Once she got to Tucson, she thought, everything would be different. She would get to know those beautiful rich boys, those intelligent worldly men. She would…
But she had never gone to Tucson. Instead, Tom had appeared. She had not been in the habit of looking at her theater customers as they bought their tickets, but something in Tom's voice had made her look up. She had never seen anything like him before, not even in Tucson. He was tall, well over six feet five, not muscular, but big-boned and strong-looking. He had bright red hair, very long – she had never seen a man with long hair before – and a flaming red beard. His eyes were bright blue and incredibly clear, and his fingers long and slender. Immediately she had imagined those fingers moving along her back, up her thighs, around her nipples, all over her already-flaming body. All she could do was stare at him. She was in love.
"Aren't you going to give me my ticket?" Tom had said, smiling. He was used to this reaction from women, counted on it, in fact.
Judy stepped out of her trance. "Sorry," she said. "I thought you were someone I knew." She handed him his ticket and change, feeling the tingle down her back as their hands touched, ever so briefly.
"Sure," said Tom, and smiled again. He took his ticket and walked into the theater, not bothering to look back. He knew she was his if he wanted her.
There was a war epic playing, a long one, and Judy knew it would be at least three hours before she saw him again. She wondered, hoping against hope, if he had noticed her, if he would come talk to her when the movie was over. She had never seen such a man, had never felt such marvelous feelings of anticipation in her body.
And Tom had come to her, just as she had hoped. He had walked right up to the ticket booth, smiled at her, and asked her if she would be free when the show was over. Would she be free! For this man she would be more than free, she already knew that she would do anything he asked of her.
Tom had an old Dodge panel truck. Judy was disappointed when she saw it, beaten-up as it was, with chipped paint and rusted chrome and cracked tail-lights, but her disappointment changed to astonishment when she stepped inside. The back of the panel truck had been set up as living quarters, and it was as lush as any apartment she'd ever seen, even those that belonged to the rich students in Tucson. There was a stereo set, complete with headphones, and a small bar. The walls were paneled in rich dark woods and covered with beautiful bright-colored paintings. There was thick pile carpet on the floor, and on the bed ("a king-sized bed in a panel truck!" Judy thought) was a luxuriant fur bedspread. Judy ran her fingers through the fur, felt her body begin to tingle again.
As they drove, Tom talked in a soft, gentle voice. He was an artist, he said, from Los Angeles, just traveling through after a summer in New Mexico. Judy had never known an artist before; she was fascinated as he talked about a world that was totally foreign to her, a world of studios and models and galleries and rich women who wanted to buy much more from the artist than just his paintings. She had listened eagerly, trying to imagine what it would be like to be the wife of an artist.
They had parked in a lonely spot in the mountains, and Tom had gone on talking, about his dreams, his plans, his work. When he was through, they made love. Tom was as gentle as his voice, as fierce as his flaming red beard. She still remembered the dizzying shock she had felt when Tom came in her, the first time she had ever experienced a man's dick. By morning they had made love four times, and Tom had asked her to come with him to Los Angeles.
By then Judy had already forgotten about her parents, her job, her plans for college, had forgotten about everything except Tom and their new love. She wanted nothing but to be with him, to make love to him, to feel his delicious prick inside her warm wet pussy. She would go anywhere with him: Los Angeles, China, the moon; it made no difference as long as they could be together always. She withdrew the few hundred dollars she had saved, packed a few clothes, and set off with him for L.A.
For the first few months everything was fine, except that Judy often wondered why Tom never seemed to paint, all he did, when they weren't making love, was sit around sucking on a strange ornate pipe, which he kept refilling with a queer gummy black substance. When she asked him about his painting and about the pipe, Tom said he was resting, building up inspiration.
But Judy didn't really care. If Tom was resting that was fine with her, just so long as he didn't rest when they were in bed together.
Then Judy began to get sick. At first she thought it was just some minor ailment, something to do with the fact that her period was a little late. But when a month had passed and she still had not menstruated, she started to worry. Finally she went to see a doctor, who examined her and took a blood smear. A few days later the results came back: "Well, Mrs. Simmons," the doctor had said, sure that his news would be cheerfully received, "there's going to be a little one."
Judy had been dazed. Up till now she had not wanted to tell Tom about any of this, but if she were really pregnant, there was nothing she could do, she would have to tell him. Tom took the news calmly, even held Judy's hand and tried to soothe her. "It's all right," he said. "We'll just go ahead and get married. Now sit right here, don't move, and I'll go to the store and get you some orange juice."
The store was only two blocks away. When an hour had passed and Tom had still not returned, she began to wonder. After two hours she began to worry – maybe something had happened to him. It was only after the afternoon and early evening had gone by that Judy began to realize: Tom had left her. He had run out on her, left her alone to deal with the baby that was already forming deep within her womb. What was she to do?
Judy wanted no part of unwed motherhood. If there wasn't a man to take care of her, then there would be no baby either. She asked around, was told of a doctor in Tijuana. She took the bus to San Diego, walked across the border, had a quick, painless abortion. The operation cost her $150, all the money she had.
She returned to Los Angeles with no idea of what she would do with herself, with no feelings at all except raging hate for Tom, the bastard who had deserted her. She would find him, she thought, she would find him and make him pay. She searched all over Los Angeles for him, went to all his favorite bars in Hollywood and Venice, but no one had seen him, no one knew where he had gone.
Finally she had stopped looking. She was completely broke, had no job and no food, was too ashamed to go back to Bisbee and her parents. Then one night a friend had introduced her to Jay Snyder. Jay, she thought, another bastard. He had seemed very nice at first, and she had been impressed with his big gray Rolls Royce and fine clothes. He had taken her to his home, high in the Hollywood Hills, overlooking the city, and had given her food, something to drink, an odd-looking cigarette to smoke. Soon she found herself in his bed, dizzy from the drink and the strangely sweet-tasting tobacco.
When they were through making love, Jay had offered her a job. "How could I have been so stupid," Judy thought as she watched her john combing his long greasy hair. The job, Jay had assured her, was an easy one – all she had to do was set herself up in an apartment, which Jay would pay for, and wait for the men to come to her. All the men wanted was a little taste of her body, Jay said, nothing more, nothing unusual, and they would pay very well. "You can't really afford to turn it down, now, can you?" Jay had smiled.
So Judy accepted his offer. Quickly she had discovered that her customers did want something more than just her body, and that as often as not what they wanted was highly unusual, but the money was good and Judy found that she could satisfy any man almost without trying – some of them weren't even able to get an erection. But then there were others, like this bastard who had just walked out the door, the ones who abused her and laughed at her pain; and this type was appearing more and more frequently. Often she had asked Jay to release her, but Jay had always refused, saying that he would write her parents in Bisbee and tell them just exactly what Judy was doing in Los Angeles.
Judy wanted out, but all the doors seemed to be closed. Unless, she thought, unless someone would come along, someone stronger than Jay, who would get her out of this mess, some man…
Oh come on, Judy. Some man, sure thing. Just what you need, another man.