Richard Van Dorne - Ravished wife

Six hundred dollars, she thought, as she watched her customer put a crisp hundred dollar bill on the table beside the bed. She had lost more than the six hundred for the hotel bill that morning.

The obese stranger said something Paula did not hear and left the room and she immediately got out of bed and walked gingerly toward the bathroom. Her anus burned with pain, and she was sure it was bleeding.

Once in the bathroom, she put out her cigarette and started the water roaring. The hotter the better, she thought. That's what Wade had told her. Wade!

Watching the bathwater, she remembered what the hotel manager had told her. There was one way she could raise the money… yeah, one way, Wade Jackson. With hardly any hesitation she had allowed the manager to call Wade for her, and explain the whole situation. Half an hour later he had arrived with the six hundred dollars cash, told her to pack her things and took her from the hotel to his car.

Still half in tears over Jed, she wasn't aware of what was happening to her when Wade took her to his penthouse apartment and told her to unpack. Shocked, she refused at first, but he told her he needed a maid, and she could work off the money she had owed him.

Finally, she consented, thinking that she could work it off as his maid, but two days later she discovered differently, when he came into her room and raped her. Unable to resist for long, she succumbed to his rape and spent the next two weeks in his bed, learning more about sex than most women learn in a lifetime.

She didn't love Wade, but she had come to like him for his kindness to her, such as flowers, a fur coat and jewelry. At the time it didn't seem to be too bad; she had become his mistress, and he did treat her well taking her with him wherever he went. She was nurturing her hatred for Jed, but it didn't possess her, not until she found out what Wade really wanted.

Paula tried not to think about it, but when she gently lowered herself into the tub, the pain forced her memory to work. The hot water on her ruptured anus seemed to burn throughout her entire body. "The bastards!" she said aloud, thinking of Jed and Wade as the pain seared through her abdomen and down into her tortured rectum. No one on earth could be worse than those two, she thought.

Everything with Wade had been fine until the night he brought a guest to the apartment and left the man alone with her. She didn't know his name, but when he kept making advances to her and she refused he got angry and told her that he had paid Wade a hundred dollars for her, and he was going to get his money's worth.

Well, he got his money's worth, she thought bitterly, and so had many other strange men since that night. The only difference was that now Paula got half of all she made. She was in constant demand, in so much demand that Wade had rented a special apartment for her to work in as well as one to live in. Paula would entertain usually three or four times a night at generally fifty to a hundred dollars a trick, depending on what they wanted.

But it was no kind of life for her. She wanted out so badly and had begged Wade again and again for release, but he only threatened her with prison and disgrace. If she didn't play his game, everyone in Davenport and Miami would know what Paula Moore did for a living.

She sat soaking in the tub, slowly washing her breasts and upper torso with a thickly lathered washrag. This is living? she thought. This is a living death, and I want out. But how? She couldn't do it alone, and most men she met would scorn her, and any man she would meet would probably want money, then leave her no better off than she was. There had to be some kind of man for her, someone who would care enough to take her out of this hell and into a real life.

There just had to be.

Sammy Wynn fumbled in his pocket for a book of matches, trying to ignore the greasy odor of the burning hamburger that was cooking on the grill. It had taken him nearly ten minutes to get the waitress' attention, and then she had fouled up his order so that he had to tell her three times that he wanted a hamburger with no catsup.

He nervously lit his cigarette and watched her put catsup on the burned hamburger bun, spilling some on herself at the same time. Christ, he thought, what the hell am I doing here?

Sammy had asked himself that question nearly every day for ten years, ever since the night he and his older brother had been caught stealing two cases of beer from an unattended truck. He was twelve years old that night, but with the arrival of two uniformed policemen, he started a record of arrests that would follow him wherever he went.

He picked up the hamburger, remembering his mother's reaction to his minor crime. She had high hopes for him, having already given up on his brother. So when the pair was arrested she cried for days over Sammy. He tried to console her but to no avail. She repeatedly called him jailbird and thief.

Stealing the beer had only been a prank, but with his mother's constant ribbing and the fact that word of his arrest had spread through the overcrowded school he attended, it soon became a badge of honor. Sammy had become a man in the eyes of his peers, a man who had stolen, a man with a record. He tried to resist their praise, but his efforts were hopeless. After his arrest he had become a celebrity, constantly sought after to tell his story of crime and arrest, and the brutality of the police.

He tried to get his school work done, and seemed to possess a great deal more ability than his fellows, but his popularity prevented his study. They demanded his company, revering him as a leader in their impoverished community of underprivileged boys, many of whom would become criminals themselves in a few short years. His studies took second place to his role as a celebrity, and soon were neglected altogether.

By the time Sammy was sixteen it was hopeless. He had to quit school to help his mother support his five younger brothers, all of whom ate more than their share, but all of them studied, and none of them stole. When he quit school he thought he would return within a year, but naturally he didn't. Life in Chicago's south side offered nothing to a young man with little money. He was able to shoot a little pool, and gamble in back alley crap games, but nothing else was left.

There were no girls who could share his thoughts. Most of them had neither the intelligence nor the interest to hear anything but stories of excitement and brushes with the law. Sammy's active mind had no use for them. He refused to take drugs, and more times than he could count, he had refused to take part in crimes that his cronies had offered him a piece of. It was hard enough to get a job without adding more arrests to his record.

Sammy bit into a soggy potato chip as he thought about his past life in the slums. The food in this restaurant was much the same as that in Chicago, except that there were less flies for some reason. He remembered the different warehouse jobs he had held, and the miserable year he had spent in the packing house, cleaning the stomachs of slaughtered cows. He could still recall the smell vividly.

He remembered the night he had come home, the slaughterhouse smell all over his clothes, to find his mother lying on the kitchen floor. He had rushed to her and lifted her limp head but it was too late to do more than call the emergency rescue squad. If he had had a father it never would have happened, he thought bitterly, but it had.

His mother had worked herself half to death trying to support her children. Now she needed support, especially for the hospital bills. It was then, at eighteen, that Sammy turned to crime for his own self-support as well as hers.

At first he tried burglary. His quick mind enabled him to form almost elaborate plans, and his physical agility allowed him access to places where most thieves would not have tried. But the business was too risky, and after a year he gave it up, trying afterwards to establish a small protection racket in the surrounding neighborhoods.