Unknown - White slave

Between sips of her Fuisse Pouissy, Chris and Francois stared out over the blackened night, watching the ships slip by announced only by the low throaty moan of the fog horn. He'd been in merchant marine at one time, he told her through his mellifluously enunciated accent, and since then had made yearly trips back to the old sea port by the bay where he's spent many a memorable evening parading up and down Broadway Street, watching the pimps, the barkers, and the prostitutes.

He asked about her background; the obvious questions a man who's paid for an evening of womanly companionship wants to know. Had she traveled? Had she gone to school? And through it all, he hadn't pried, hadn't insinuated or demanded.

Even when he walked her to her door, he had remained a perfect gentleman, kissing her hand delicately and wishing her a good evening's rest. Chris went to bed that evening of a full stomach and a prayer in her heart for Sandy. Sandy, maybe this once I misjudged you. A free meal and a few drinks, and I'll be out of this mess you got us into. Yes, maybe for once you were right, Sandy.

Stories below, Margaret Sorenson completed her nightly ritual of watching Johnie Carson on television while sipping a small glass of sherry. On the kitchen table sat two place settings; only one of them used. Roger had not shown up for dinner, despite the note of invitation she'd tacked to his door. When she had gone down to investigate at eight o'clock, just as she'd taken the roast out of the oven for the second time, she'd heard the unmistakable grunts and groans of lovemaking.

Roger was cheating on her again, she sniffed, blinking back a tear. Didn't it matter she loved him? Didn't he care after all she'd done for him? And the pain to think she'd let him take advantage of her like that… forcing her to use her mouth on him like some common whore.

Well, let him have his whores, his fast women who had to sell their bodies to stay alive. At least she still had her dignity, she resolved, getting up to switch off the television set and turning off the light, her apple cheeks reddened, partly from the sherry, and partly from the fury of her emotions.

Margaret Sorenson was a proud woman. No landlord could take advantage of her like that and get away with it. She would have her revenge. Time was on her side.

The stereo ground out an old Beatle's tune, slowing now and then with the power failures typical of poorly wired urban apartment buildings. It may have been two high school girls dressing for their first dates, judging from the excitement and expectations, matching lipstick and nail polish, changing stockings and shoes.

"… It all went well last night then?" asked Sandy, stroking the hair brush through her long, thick locks.

"Perfect. Just perfect! In fact," confessed Chris poking an earring through her pierced ear, "he was a real doll. Very mature and dignified and he didn't even try to kiss me! God, maybe I have bad breath or something," she chuckled, never loosing sight of her profile in the dressing mirror.

"That could almost get to be a drag," mused Sandy, with raised eyebrows. "That has never happened to me, so I wouldn't know."

Chris snapped the earring shut. "Tell me about it, Sandy," she said light-heartedly, but with a sting of sarcasm.

"Come on. I can't help it if I like to make love. It's the neatest thing in the world. Can you think of anything that feels any better?"

Chris laughed. "Its been so long I couldn't say…"

Sandy turned from her girlfriend and searched through her big leather bag until she found the foil-wrapped packet she had stashed there for emergencies. Actually, it was Roger's idea, but she had to agree it was a good one. "Chris, come on, this will get you in a party mood."

Chris looked up, saw that Sandy was holding a lighted cigarette in her hand. She held the lighted stick of marijuana in offering and Chris accepted it, though reluctantly. Too many times she'd let herself loose control while stoned; it was a vice she had grown wary of.

"I'm no sure…"

"Don't be such a prude!" chided Sandy, taking a deep puff herself. "Here, smoke a little. C'mon." She held the hand-rolled cigarette to Chris' lips; first the blonde turned away, but then when it was obvious that Sandy would persist, she reluctantly took one tiny puff. A tingle of warmth followed the sweet-smelling smoke down her throat and along the nerve channels of her body; just the one puff was enough to bring a wave of relaxation to her excited body. She felt her mind loosen as if obeying some secret command; another, deeper drag followed, then still another…

Soon, in minutes, or in hours, they had finished the joint and Sandy had produced another from her tin foil packet. Chris didn't hesitate this time; the nerve-soothing drug seemed to answer a deep inner need, and the inbred instinct to resist it had been destroyed.

"There, you feel more like partyin' now without getting goose bumps?" Sandy asked her shy friend.

Chris nodded. "Yes, thanks. I feel a lot… a lot better now." Her words were beginning to blur together, and she hesitated at places that needed no pause.

"Now about tonight. We're getting paid one hundred dollars each since this is a private party that Roger is giving for some business friends. Is that cool with you?" asked the brunette watching her friends eyes sparkle with dollar signs.

"That sounds okay to me!" burst Sandy, stepping into her platform shoes. She always waited 'til the last minute to put them on out of consideration for the neighbors below who had to listen to the heavy clump, clump of her wooden heels. Bending over to secure the straps and buckle the tiny metal fastener at her slim ankle, Chris lost her balance and fell on her buttocks, with a groan.

Sandy looked down at her stoned friend. "For God's sakes, Chris, get your act together. We're supposed to be calm and sophisticated debutantes, remember? Not a couple of burned out hippies."

"All right, all right," snapped Chris defensively before bursting into giggles.

Sandy headed toward the living room and called over her shoulder to Chris, still in her bedroom. "Why don't you make yourself a cup of coffee! I'm going down to see if everything is cool with Roger." The door slammed behind her and Chris, kicking off her uncomfortable shoes, padded in her level bare feet to the kitchen.

"Roger!" Sandy knocked on the door and was greeted on the second knock, but she didn't step in; there wasn't time.

"Howdy, Sandy. Everything set?"

"Just like you said. A few pulls on the grass and she's ready for anything. Grass does that to her." Sandy leaned against the door jam and stared at a scrawled note that lay on the doormat. Stooping over, she picked it up and handed it to Roger. "Looks like this is for you. Must have blown off the door."

"Thanks," said the landlord, scanning the pencil-written note. His eyes narrowed disconcertedly, a gesture Sandy did not fail to notice.

"What's the matter? Somebody's tub overflow?" she giggled.

"Naw. It's from Margaret… she lives upstairs from me. Christ, I wish she would stop nagging me. Goddamn women, can't leave me alone," he chuckled egocentrically. "Ah," he sneered. "She's just a dumb immigrant from the old country," he said, mimicking Margaret's Swedish accent.

"Anyway, I came down to see if everything's okay. I'm sure I can handle those friends of yours, but I'm not too sure about Chris. She's pretty shy, you know."

"Just keep gettin' her loaded. She'll be okay."

He kissed her on the forehead and she sauntered down the musty smelling hallway, passing by door after door, hearing muffled sounds of the evening news, mixed with low conversation and the heady smell of dinner wafting out from under closed doors. Sandy had one hand on the railing when something behind her made her jump.