Roger Hornsby - The sex procurer

Several of the guys then around me, nodded. "Yeah," one of them said. "We'd like to dick her. We'll pay good money."

"We can dick her in the dressing room," and another said. "We can line up outside the door and she can take us one at a time, if she wants the privacy."

They all laughed. "What about it?" the first guy asked me.

I nodded. "I'll see what she thinks," I said, and turned away. "I think maybe she'll go for it – if the money's right." And I started to the dressing room.

"The money'll be right," another said. "It'll be the best. And see if she'll suck off that hound while she's screwing us." And they all laughed.

"Yeah," several of them called. "Let's have her lick the dog while she studs us." And that really turned them on.

I talked to her in the dressing room. I put the proposition to her. "It's good money," I said. "You couldn't get anything better. All you have to do is let them screw you the same way I did, and suck Rover off while you're doing it."

She looked at me. For awhile she said nothing. A cloud was over her eyes, and I didn't like what I saw. Finally she said, "I used to think you loved me." She said nothing else. She just stared at me awhile longer, and then she turned away and looked to herself in the mirror. Rover was beside her, panting happily, and he saw her in that mirror, too.

"You won't, huh?" I said, knowing a final answer when I heard it, determined never to be caught in a beg. I said only that and stared at her through the mirror.

She didn't look at me, but patted the dog's head, rubbed his fur smoothly, andl watched what she did through that glass. Then she shook her head. It was a final answer all right.

I turned away, left the room, went back to the guys, told them the answer, and said I was damned sorry. "Maybe another time," I said, and was already thinking ahead. "Maybe another time."

They begged me, grovelers all, and I had to put them off, knowing I wouldn't try to pass along the beg to her. I simply repeated, "Maybe another time," left them, and knew what I was going to do.

That night, on the outskirts of that town, I beat the shit out of her. That's right. I stopped just past a truck joint, turned off the road and went into some hills, made her get out of the car, and proceeded to pound the living hell out of her. She bawled and tried to run away, and I tripped her and fell on her and savagely fucked her, ripping away her clothes while I went at her body. And all the while I pounded her cunt with my dick while I was beating the shit out of her tits with my fists. And I kicked her in the face when I was done while she bawled when I came off her. All the while Rover, chained to the back seat, howled.

I unleashed him and told him to lick her twat. He performed the act exactly as he had been trained. He licked her twat while she lay there, bawling; and then I drove away, looking at the scene a minute in my headlights, and then skidding the vehicle on two wheels away, and not giving a shit for her in the least. Let them find her in the morning. The big dealers in the town would know who she was. They could do something for her. Maybe one of them might even marry the bitch. Who knows? I couldn't care less.

And I got the hell out of there.

I went on the bum again, traveling from town to town, figuring what I would do. I didn't give a shit. I had plenty of dough from the hustling I'd done across the years, and I couldn't care less for anything. I just decided to pass the time. All the while, though, I was figuring things out, thinking what I'd do next, making plans for the future. And finally I decided to move in on some new cunt territory, as the saying might be, when I felt like moving.

I spotted her one day in the rush hour in a town I was driving through. She was a big girl, something nice. I liked the way she carried herself. She wore tennis shoes, little red things with a white trim, and hose, and had a short skirt and it was tight and really made her ass come on big. She wore a frilly blue blouses and her hair was just average and nothing special in the coiffure department. She was sort of reddish-brown, and her face was all peaches-and-cream. I estimated her to be about twenty or maybe twenty-one at the most, and I figured she belonged to a junior college a couple of blocks away that I had passed.

So I circled the block and decided how I would make the pass. There's one thing that doesn't always work, and more guys should know it; that's the business of pulling in close by the curb and asking them if they want a ride. For one thing, too many mamas have warned their little girls to beware of accepting rides with strangers. It actually goes back to their childhood, and it's a hang-up with them. They refuse you nine times out of ten if they're the good girl type.

Note that: I call it a type. It doesn't mean they really are good girls. For my money, no good girls exist. The same broads who won't accept a ride with you when you're in the car meeting them for the first time are the same broads who will accept that same ride if they meet you otherwise and talk with you no more than maybe a couple of minutes.

That's why you've got to go on foot if you want to make out with that type. I pulled into a spot off the street where I saw her, swinging around the block and almost returning to the scene of the first passing. Then I went right behind her, eyed her legs perfectly; she was a beautiful creature, big-boned and nice in every way; and then figured on the way I would make the pass.

A traffic signal is always perfect for the meeting. If you both happen up to it at the same time, and there aren't too many people around, things work out perfectly sometimes. For instance, you can say something about the length of time it takes for a light to change. Or if it's one of those crossings where the pedestrian has to push a button for a "Walk" signal, you can ask her if she's already pushed it. Or you can make a comment on the outfit she's wearing. There are all kinds of possibilities.

I met her at such a signal, and tried for the maximum. It's shock value sometimes that counts. So I led off with a bangeroo. "You've got nice legs," I said, as sweet as you please.

She blinked. She flushed. She didn't know what to say. Her big blue eyes just popped, and finally she said dumbly, "Well, thank you." And she flustered some more.

I ran it for all it was worth. "Have you ever appeared in any magazines?" She didn't know what I meant, blinked again, shifted position, looked to the light, and I could tell that her heart was pounding at eighty per. "I thought I've seen your picture in some men's magazines. Haven't I?"

She shook her head, unable to say anything. She knew damned well I was loading it on, and yet I knew she was intrigued. After all, I happen to know this: it's the secret ambition of every broad to get into a girlie mag. That's right. Oh they might say it's shameful and disgusting the way those girls "prostitute" themselves – that's the righteous ones' words, if and when they say anything about it – but secretly they all want the same thing for themselves. And they'll do anything to show their bodies off for a guy, I know.

So I kept running it all the way. "Or maybe it was a topless bar," I said, knowing I was pushing it to the limits. For, I knew, she was wise that I was piling it on. But I was counting on her natural woman's vanity to tide me over. They all want to take off their clothes for men, want to think their tits are the greatest in the world, want to believe they have the most beautiful stems around the countryside. And they'll listen to you even when they know you're putting it so high that a shit collector couldn't shovel it all away in a month of Saturdays.

She shook her head again nervously and concentrated on the signal. It didn't change, and the passing traffic forbade her from going against the light. I had the scene all to myself. "Well," I said, "are you interested in modeling?"