Robert Taylor: Whipped bitch

Janey screamed.

The man had seized the collar tabs of her shirt and yanked, intending to tear it open. But the neck was buttoned tightly and the tabs were slippery, soaking wet like all her clothing. The collar slipped from his grasp.

She cowered into the corner of the cab of the pickup truck, clawing for the doorhandle.

"I'm going to have a look at those big tits of yours," he snarled.

"Mister, wait!" she cried. "Don't tear my shirt, it's all I got!"

He paused, rubbing a hand across his lips. He was big, raw-boned, had tangled red hair and a hooked nose.

Rain crashed on the cab roof, flooded down the windshield. The headlights showed palm trees thrashing about, bent almost double by the violence of the storm. The rain was cold, had torn through Janey's clothes until she had wept with the pain of the icy tremors that had seemed to freeze her bones. And yet she pawed at the door, trying to find the handle to escape this brutal rapist.

He laughed. "Shit, girl. There's no doorhandle on that side."

She didn't believe him. Her hand raced frantically over the greasy door.

"I took em off," he grinned. He plucked a cigarette from a pack on the dashboard and lit it. He wore a thick plaid jacket, zipped up only halfway. He said, "You don't want to go out into that storm. You're three miles from the nearest house and there's just no cars out in this weather. So you just warm your fingers so you can unbutton that shirt and show me your tits."

"Mister," she pleaded, "I'm so cold…"

"Should've thought of that before you run away from home. I swear, I don't understand you kids, think you can hitchhike to palm-tree country and think it's going to be all sunshine and oranges." He paused, flicked cigarette ashes on the floor. "Well, I picked you up out of the storm and it's warm here in the cab and I want to see your tits, that's all there is to it. Hell, I ain't going to fuck you. In this cramped old cab? Shit, I can get all the cunt I want in a nice big bed."

"Unbutton your shirt. For shit's sakes, your tits will be warmer without wet clothing on 'em!"

Janey was frightened into rigidity. Her fingers were too stiff to work the buttons.

He lunged, both hands stabbing at her shirt. He caught it right this time, yanked. Buttons popped, cloth ripped, and the shirt was wide open, her breasts spilling into view.

She clawed at his hands. He swore, and a thumb jammed into her throat – instant agony, like a hammer striking. She gagged and clawed as the man stared at her breasts, large, high globes with big, pink caps.

He grunted with satisfaction and released her. He turned to the steering wheel, thrust into gear and drove down the highway.

"You're lucky," he said. "Pretty face and blonde hair, and tits like melons. Stand up nice and high, they do. Or I'd have thrown your ass out into the rain. Your legs look long and I hope your ass ain't flat. I don't want the trouble of tearing your bluejeans down to see your ass. I'll let Miz Claymore do that."

Janey tugged the shreds of her shirt together over her breasts. He shifted gears and she saw the speedometer needle climb to forty. Even if there were a doorhandle she couldn't jump out now. How had he known that she had run away from home? Dreaming of sunshiny palm trees and oranges to be picked right off trees?

Shivering, she watched rain spill down the windshield faster than the wipers could scoop it away, saw palm trees thrashing like whips, heard the rain drumming on the roof, and the steady splash of water against the fenders.

She had waited two hours in the rain until this man picked her up.

The road was empty, not a house in sight. Sometimes she glimpsed the ocean through the palm trees to her right, towering waves crashing thunderously.

Then, neon lights. To the left. A large building, a towering sign arched over the figure of a naked girl. The rain flooding the windshield eased enough that she could read the letters – Palm Cove Topless.

The pickup truck turned off the highway into a drive leading to the front of the neon glare. Dozens of cars were parked there. Her driver stopped at a door bright beneath an overhead light. He stopped, turned off the motor and opened his door.

"Come with me," he said.

Janey backed into her corner. "But where… what…"

"Oh, shit," he snarled, seizing her arm and yanking her out under the steering wheel. His grip was like iron; she stumbled out after him, tears running down her cheeks now, shivering violently as the icy rain struck her and washed away what little heat she had gathered in the cab. He hustled her to the door and rang a bell, quiet chimes sounding inside.

The door opened. A small, dark man in a black jersey and black pants gazed at them. Slanty eyes, Oriental looking. He waved them inside, into a narrow hall, and closed the door.

"Akito, you get Miz Claymore here. Tell her this cunt is near froze to death from the storm."

The Oriental nodded and went off swiftly with a curious, soft-footed gait, like a cat, Janey thought. But that notion was fleeting. Most important, warmth seeped up her pants legs. She opened her shirt to receive it, while turning from the driver of the pickup truck. In so doing she glimpsed the outside door. A steel rectangle painted white, broken only by a keyhole where the doorknob should be.

The feeling of being trapped made Janey rise on her toes, ready to scream.

Then a woman appeared in the hall.

She was blonde, wore a reddish silk evening gown tight on a slim, lovely body. She walked with a brisk stride.

"Orvil!" she said to the man. "The poor darling is shivering. Bring her into the office quickly."

Lustrous, dark brown eyes swept over Janey. "Sweetheart, hurry in. I have towels. That terrible storm!"

"It's good weather for me," Orvil said, laughing.

"Yes, but the poor-sweetheart! Like a drowned rat! Honey, what's your name?"

"Janey."

They ushered her into the office, a businesslike place with filing cabinets, two desks, some straight chairs. A tidy, cold sort of place. The woman tore open a drawer and took out a whiskey bottle. She spilled an inch or so into a glass and handed it to Janey.

"This will stave off pneumonia, precious."

Janey hated whiskey, but she gulped the stuff down, holding her breath. It scorched her throat. She choked, gulped again. Liquid fire! It hit her stomach and the rolling started. She clutched her mouth, knowing she was going to vomit. She had not eaten in two days. She fell into a chair. The nausea passed.

Helpless, she felt her shirt and jacket being torn off the unbelievable, luxurious dry warmth of a bath towel encircled her shoulders.

"I want a hundred," Orvil said. "She's got big tits."

"Help me with her pants," the woman snapped at him.

Clutching the towel to her, again fighting nausea, Janey did not protest, could not, as they stripped icy bluejeans and panties off her legs. The woman wrapped a second towel about her thighs.

More whiskey was brought. She drank it, hoping she could hold it down. She fought it while squeezing herself together beneath the towels. The two were talking low-voiced. Then she felt the whiskey get to her blood stream. She was warming all over.

She groaned in relief.

"Darling Janey, please stand up," Mrs. Claymore said.

They helped her rise. Then the woman plucked away the towels and gazed intently at her body, turned her around, then exclaimed, "What a luscious behind! Orvil, she is adorable. Fifty now, the rest when – depending…" She opened a drawer and took out some money. She gave it to Orvil. "Don't seem like much," he complained.

"Orvil, you know I'm more than generous. Depending…" She turned to a desk and flicked the switch of an intercom box. "Akito, please let Orvil out. And I want a tub of hot water for Janey in number six."