A Vintage Erotic Novel Involving a Sexy and Seductive Girl, Full of Sexual Adventures, Surprises and Twists.
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Chapter OneHobbling on one leg the fat hairy man bent to pull on one sock, too drunk to try holding onto the bed for support. He struggled, almost falling twice, but finally succeeded and put his foot down with a loud thump. As he looked for the other knee-length black sock he raised his head momentarily to grin at the sleek young girl who lay on the bed watching him.You fat bastard, Paula Moore thought as she smiled back at him. She was relieved that he had turned his head away in search of his other sock, but not half as relieved as she would be when he left the room, after he put his money on the table, of course. She inhaled deeply on the cigarette she was holding. The money was the important thing, she thought. He can do anything he wants for money... and he had.Paula could not ignore the burning pain that seared deep into her ravaged rectum. She hadn't been in the business long, but she was quickly learning the ways of "johns" who were willing to pay a girl for any perverted obscene pleasures they desired. This fat ugly man who now sat on the floor had not been the first to demand something unusual of her. Some had forced her to submit to fellatio or cunnilingus, while others had begged her to be cruel to them, beating them with a various assortment of instruments they had provided.True, he hadn't been the first, but his demands had been the worst, she thought as she watched him crawling around the floor looking for his shorts his huge belly almost touching the carpet. It took an ugly man to do such an ugly thing, her thoughts continued. Paula could still feel the pain of the slap he had given her when he had demanded that she do as he ordered. How terrible it had been, how animalistic when he had turned her over and suddenly thrust his finger brutally into the tight virginal ring of her anus.Paula tried to force the horrible picture from her mind but could not. She remembered screaming with fear as much as pain when he had first violated her. That was when he had slapped her with his wide flat hand. She had tried to get away, but he had thrown her back onto the large bed and had told her to shut up or she would get even worse.Worse, she thought. What could have been worse than having that depraved creature force his fat stubby prick into me like that?The throbbing in her rectum would not relent and she wished that he would hurry and leave. She inhaled again on the long cigarette, watching him pulling on his shorts while he bent over, unable to touch his toes because of the huge mass of flesh that he called his overpaid stomach. Lucky for me, she thought, that his prick hadn't been any bigger, or he might have really hurt me. She nearly laughed as she looked at the tiny bump in his shorts. At least Jed was a man in that respect, but in no other respect.Paula Moore had experienced many emotions during the first nineteen years of her life, but the strongest was hate. Two men shared the distinction of being hated by Paula. The first was her boss, Wade Jackson, but the second, the one who had caused all her misfortune was Jed Dearborn.Paula could not forget Jed for a moment, not even while she watched the drunken man hobbling around the room with one leg in his trousers, unable to gain his balance to put the other pantleg over his flabby calf.She remembered the homespun restaurant in Davenport, Iowa where she had waited on tables and helped clean the kitchen for ten hours a day after her parents had died when she was just barely eighteen. She had received a few thousand dollars from the insurance company, but by the time all the debts were settled she had less than three thousand left and had gone to work so that she could continue her schooling.But Davenport was so small and so limiting for a young girl who needed excitement. There were no boys her own age that interested her, and the only men that did appeal to her were already married, and therefore taboo to a girl whose strict morals refused her access to them. She was a woman at eighteen and needed a man, but none were available as far as she was concerned.None were available, that is, until that hot August afternoon when Jed walked through the door and sat down at the counter she was serving. His blond hair was longer than most men's, but it seemed to suit him perfectly. His entire face, perfectly chiseled, seemed to be centered around his deep blue eyes. Paula had tried not to stare when she brought him a glass of water, but it was impossible. He was the sexiest man she had ever seen and she had to look at him, secretly hoping that perhaps she would be able to touch him.Paula remembered him well, though her memory could not recall any of their conversation. She inhaled the menthol cigarette again and watched the fat man pulling his suspenders over his rounded shoulders. There was no comparison between this ugly man and Jed with his large muscled shoulders and slim hips, she thought, and retreated back to her memory.It had been Saturday when Paula met Jed, and she got off work at three o'clock. Each word that Jed had said to her had seemed like magic, and for some reason, she had agreed to go with him for a drive. She pointed out parts of the rolling countryside as he guided his new red convertible along the highway, but he hardly listened to her. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was entirely one-sided, his side.Jed talked incessantly about big cities, about gambling, about the girls he had known and all the money he had. It wasn't long before Paula stopped talking altogether. Despite her intelligence she believed his every word, and hung on his arm, taking it all in as gospel. She had thought he was the most exciting, most interesting man she had ever met, and decided that she could not let him go.He had talked through dinner and half the night, never touching her, but teasing her with words she had long since forgotten. But by dawn she was completely naked in his motel room, her virginity gone and her whole being fulfilled.Paula thought about that bright morning as she watched the fat man tie the broad striped silk tie around his bulging throat. She remembered Jed fixing his own tie as she lay nude on the warm sheets, her firm breasts rising with her breath. She remembered running her slender fingers along the supple flesh of her torso, teasing herself with her own touch. It was that morning that Jed had made his proposal to take her to Miami. They could be married as soon as they arrived and live together forever as man and wife.Paula felt a sharp pain of anger rise in her breasts. That bastard! Jed's promise was as full of hot air as everything else he had said. After she drew all of her savings out of the Davenport Bank Monday morning, they had driven day and night to reach Miami.For more than two weeks they played in bed and in town. But Jed kept putting off the marriage, saying that his doctor had to run special blood tests to be sure there was nothing wrong with him. Paula had believed him and even felt sorry for him, fearful that something might really be wrong with his health.All those hours for two weeks, gambling and dining and drinking on her money, Jed saying that he had to wait for a transfer of funds from his San Francisco account, all that time for nothing! She easily remembered that terrible morning Jed had left the room to get a morning paper. When he hadn't come back by noon, she began to worry and by midnight was frantic with fear that something had happened to him.She had called the police and even gone out looking for him herself, but to no avail. For three days she waited for him to return, drinking and crying the whole time.Finally, on the fourth morning, the hotel manager came to the door with the bill. He told her she had to pay the balance before he could let her stay any longer. Paula had opened her purse and saw her wallet was empty. Jed had taken every dollar she had hidden in the secret compartment and now the manager was demanding six hundred dollars!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.Chapter TwoSammy 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 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 eighteen 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.He made enough money to get by, and though his mother was out of the hospital, she could not work at all, forcing him to support the whole family. Sammy was smart enough, though, to make deals with the syndicate, and keep himself out of trouble with them. But soon, his take was reduced further and further as the syndicate took a larger and larger percentage of his illicit earnings.The bastards, Sammy thought, as he wiped the catsup off his chin and reached for another cigarette. They had forced him to expand further until he was carrying a pistol and planning robberies. Finally, just a week before his twenty-second birthday, Sammy and two friends held up a jewelry store in broad daylight.They didn't have a chance. One was shot leaving, the store, and the other was tackled by a burly policeman. Sammy had run for blocks before he stopped. Time had ran out for him and he had to leave town.That's what did it, he thought angrily, a lousy jewelry store stick-up and I'm forced out of town like a hunted animal. He didn't think his friends would tell who he was, but he couldn't have taken the chance.On the train out of Chicago he had read a tourist's add for the glamorous city of Miami. It was there he had thought he could make a fresh start.Fresh start, bull! he thought as he left the restaurant. Wade Jackson gave me a fresh start alright, a fresh start on crime.Sammy had met Wade on his first night in Miami two weeks ago. The pair had a good time with a couple of Wade's girlfriends, and Sammy thought he was a pretty fair sport. It was only after Sammy had told him that he needed a job that he discovered Wade's true business.But after all, it was a job, and for the time being, Sammy needed the money.Wade Jackson's enterprise enveloped every hotel and nearly all the motels in Miami. Miami, the convention city, had more tourists and conventioneers than any one man could handle, but Wade made the effort anyway. He controlled the lives of over a hundred prostitutes in every part of the city. They catered strictly within certain areas, and each was expected to make a quota of "tricks" each week, some more than others. Often Wade's contacts made the arrangements for the girls, but many were on their own. They were all carefully watched and had to account for every cent they were suspected of making. If they didn't make quota, or held out some of the money, they were dealt with severely.A few of the girls knew each other, meeting at some of Wade's 'specially arranged parties, but no one person know enough to really hurt the organization.Sammy, himself, had already come into contact with twenty-one of the girls; he was a collector. Each week he was responsible to pick up twenty-five thousand dollars in cash from his twenty-five girls, his reward being one percent of the take, which came to a nice round two hundred and fifty dollars a week. In a few months he would be able to quit and find something else, including different restaurants to eat in.But for now, he had four more collections to make before his first week on the job was finished. He looked at the addresses in his notebook and started the car. With luck he could be finished in two hours.Chapter Three"Breakfast is ready," Pamela Lee called up the stairs.Jeff didn't answer his wife's call, but walked down the stairs, stopping for a moment in front of a mirror to straighten his tie. At forty he already had a distinguishing streak of grey at his temples that offset his youthful-looking face. He thought that the grey was one of his rewards for being the managing editor of one of Miami's largest newspapers. His professionalism had earned him an impeccable reputation across the country, as well as in the city, a reputation he sometimes regretted."Hi, Honey," he greeted his wife as he entered the dining room, and looked at her admiringly.Though ten years younger than her husband, Pamela made an almost perfect wife. She loved her husband as much as he loved her, and focused all of her concern around him and their life together.They had met in Washington, had dated for nearly a year before they were married. And each day of the past three years had been good to them both, even through the small quarrels that all married people suffer.Pamela ensured good food, a clean house and good company for her husband without fail. Only one point of friction remained between them. Her concern for social acceptance. She felt it proper that they be a part of the same circle of socially elite people that she had known before they were married. She had argued that it was important for his work, but he countered that he didn't give a damn. Pamela knew it irritated him, but thought she was right and would not relent, though she tried not to bring the subject into conversation too often. She hoped to convert him by a soft-sell technique.But society pages were the furthest from Jeff's mind as he sat at the table and unfolded his napkin. For more than two years, ever since he had been offered the job in Miami, Jeff had been occupied by one thought: prostitution.He examined his poached egg and began to eat. His morning occupation consisted of scanning his own paper's night edition, then his competitors' products, making mental notes of errors in each between bites of breakfast."Hmmf," he grunted after he finished and picked up his coffee cup. There had been nothing of any consequence in any of the papers, with the exception of the editorials in his own. I wish no news were really good news, he thought.Every morning Pamela watched him read the papers and wolf down his breakfast, while she sat silently across from him. She knew that he didn't want to be disturbed, and so never said anything until he finished reading and gave his usual, "Hmmf." She knew now, that he was ready for conversation."What's the matter, Jeff," she asked as she did every morning."The same old thing," he replied, not really wanting to talk."How's your other work going then," she asked, slightly annoyed by his curt answer."Don't get me started on that so early," he answered her, not wanting to get into an argument. Pamela would always listen, he thought, but it all goes right over her head. She was too naive to believe that anything like organized prostitution would take place in Miami."Please," she asked, "I want to know.""Alright," he said, "You asked for it. Yesterday I finally got a name. Not just any name, but the name of the head of this organization that you don't think exists."Pamela looked at him attentively, though she didn't really care about the so-called syndicate because she had made up her mind that there was no such thing."Ready for a shock," he continued. "Try Wade Jackson."Pamela uttered an audible gasp and for a moment was stunned. Then it came to her; he was only joking, and she began to laugh."Think it's funny?" he asked, his brow furrowed in growing anger."But Jeff, he's no criminal. Why-why Wade Jackson donates thousands of dollars to charities each year. I ought to know, I'm on enough committees. Wade Jackson, really!"Just like a woman, Jeff thought. Totally illogical, and won't believe anything she doesn't want to."He's not the only one," he told her. "Why do you think none of the money in town will give me any support?"But Pamela wasn't listening. If Jeff was going to behave like this, then she wouldn't hear a word he said. After all, men like Wade Jackson don't give money to the needy and helpless, then turn around and operate prostitution rings. It was too ridiculous to even consider.But Jeff had started, and nothing would stop him until he was finished. "Most of your precious society friends who have any political or business control don't want me to stop Jackson. I've seen every one possible, and only one will help. Of course, they won't say no, but they won't help either."If you have any idea of how much tourist money flows through this city each week, you wouldn't believe it. But that's not all, damnit. Jackson is raking off millions each year from his girls and gives a pittance to the right people and a few charities, justifying his position as a man of good standing.
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