Trust
A M Raulerson
Copyright © 2017 A M Raulerson ISBN:1548714704 ISBN-13: 978-1548714703
DEDICATION
Some very special people are the driving force in my life. Catherine, you are the Mother I truly wish I had. I consider you my Mother because the one I’ve got… Well, you know about that. You have been there through thick and thin with me, and there is nothing in this world or beyond, that I can do to thank you.
It never would have been written at all if one man, yes John Harris, that’s you, hadn’t told me I could do it. He helped me to believe in my writing and then introduced me to the women I wish were my sisters. In my heart they are, and I will always cherish them and their friendship. Three very special women have been the supporting force behind this book. I’ve put them through a lot, I can be very neurotic at times. Who am I kidding! I’m neurotic and obsessive most of the time! And don’t get me started on my addiction to the exclamation point. But, I want these women- Jo, Kris and Amber to know just how much I love and appreciate them and their sacrifices. Long nights of discussions, constant questions and bugging the heck out of them when venting. Thank you to all of you as well.
CONTENTS
Dedication i
Justin Chapter 1 1
Justin Chapter 2 Pg 13
David Chapter 3 Pg 23
Justin Chapter 4 Pg 27
Justin Chapter 5 Pg 43
David Chapter 6 Pg 78
David Chapter 7 Pg 86
Justin Chapter 8 Pg 98
Charlie Chapter 9 Pg 115 Justin Chapter 10 Pg 149
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To all of my supporters, handlers, editors, beta readers, councilors, ARC, wranglers, and just plain friends Thank You SOOOO very much!
Love you,
Amanda Marie i
CHAPTER 1 JUSTIN
My problems started from birth. Well, before birth really. My biological Mother was a child prostitute. Convinced by her, soon to be, pimp that she should run away with him, leave her troubled home. He convinced her that he loved her and that only he could take care of her. He told her that her parents didn’t love her, that they were just trying to control her. So at fourteen she left home with him. What she got wasn’t anything like she’d imagined. Instead of keeping his promises to her, he immediately sold her off. He wasn’t like a regular pimp though, oh no. His ‘girls’ weren’t raped by him and his partners. No, he auctioned off all his newbies as virgins first. He made a lot of money off sick men who liked them young and “pure”. Once her virginity was gone, he beat her, raped her and pimped her out to other “special clients”. The drugs he got her hooked on made her compliant, always needing just one more hit. She did anything he said.
By the age of fifteen she was pregnant and too far along to have sex anymore. Yeah, there are people out there who like to have sex with pregnant children too. Sick, but what can you do about it? The pimp dropped her off at a small rundown house he owned, because you can't take a fourteen year old to a hospital without raising a lot of questions. The lady that ran the house was a midwife and nurse.
She gave birth to me in that shabby house, surrounded by other similarly pregnant children. Apparently her pimp had a lot of clientele who paid extra to skip the condom. The pimp kept the kids. I mean why give up free merchandise if all you had to do was feed them for a while and then pimp them out, without having to worry about a family looking for them?
Of course, I have no memory of a “Father”. There was no chance she even knew who it was. I remember mostly the feelings of fear, pain, loneliness and abandonment. I was born hooked on drugs and left in a crib. My Mother was taken back to “work” the second she was healthy enough for sex, so I have no real memory of her either. When I did see her through the slats of the crib, she was pregnant again, staring at me with guilt and fear. She knew what they were going to do to me, but there was nothing she could do about it.
I was raised by t he midwife. Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it raising. We kids were kept in the house at all times. No one was to know about us. As babies we were placed two to a playpen, our only source of comfort came from the other baby. The midwife changed our diapers and gave us bottles, but there was no comfort from her. It was her job to feed us and change us. But we were just a job to her, nothing more.
She used any means available to her to keep us quiet, slapping us or pinching our noses closed until we learned to stop crying. She had this pillow, heavy and solid, that we all learned to fear. She would hold the pillow to our faces, pushing hard, suffocating us until we passed out. That’s the kind of fear and pain you don’t ever forget.
I vaguely remember my first hug. It was from my crib mate. It wasn’t even a hug really; he squeezed me tight to get me to stop crying. He was maybe a year or two older than me, but he’d learned not to make a sound, even when he was struck. He placed his hand over my mouth and rocked me back and forth. That, I think, is when I learned to rock, to comfort myself. We all learned early, that being quiet was the way to keep from getting hit.
One of my few memories of when I was a child is when I must have been around three or four. The pimp had come to the house looking for a certain kind of child. We had all been lined up, this had never happened to me before so I was terrified. I held the hand of my crib mate, and stared blankly forward. The pimp went down the line until he came to us. He told my crib mate to turn around. The fear was so bad that I was hyperventilating. My only source of comfort was being taken from me, I knew it. The last time I saw him was burned into my brain. He didn't say anything, he just looked me in the eye and squeezed my hand. I never knew what happened to him. I never saw him again.
The next memory I have, I think was about five years old. The pimp came back, lining us up again, and looking at each of us. He stopped in front of me, and I went ice cold. He told me to turn around. I knew then that whatever had happened to my crib mate was going to be my fate also. They hadn't given me another crib mate so there was no one to squeeze my hand and no one to look back at when I was hauled off for who knows what.
I blacked out most of the next three or four years, until I was adopted. I hope I never remember those times. In a way I was lucky, the last man I was sold to treated me a lot better. I was only with him for around nine months, but I was always clean and fed. He would hug me and tell me I had done a good job. It was human contact and “love”, but that didn’t make up for everything else that happened. I was kept in a secret room, a type of closet with a TV and games, and I was only taken out for one thing. Things I blacked out and don’t want to remember. Things were just as bad in Foster Care sometimes, abuse was rampant, but I had already learned to be quiet and not to bring attention to myself.
I remember one day in particular, fear branded it into my mind. I heard shouting and screaming, something being smashed, and then a big ‘boom’ sounded. I hurried to crawl as far as I could under the bed, and then I saw the door to my room open. A gun came through first, then a man. He was followed by another gun, and another man. When he shouted “Clear” I knew I was in trouble. We had been told that if the cops ever came they would kill us. We were not to tell them anything. Then the first cop looked under the bed where I was hiding. I didn't know what to do so I stayed silent, like I’d been told. I didn’t talk at all. The cop gently pulled me out, telling me everything would be all right now. He held me close and rubbed my back. I had never been held like that before. He didn’t want anything from me. I felt his compassion, I think, but I didn’t know what to make of it so I remained stiff and silent.
I was immediately placed in the foster care system. Shuffled from one house to the next. My foster parents always took me to a shrink, thinking they could fix me, but I didn’t have anything to say, and I had been told all my shor
t life never to say anything. I didn’t want to go back to what I’d had before, but I didn’t want to be there either. I just had nothing to say.
I was adopted not too long after that by a couple who had tried for years to have a baby of their own. It had been one painful let down after another. Another treatment that resulted in no child for all the pain they went through. They were never told about my early years. They adopted me with very little information and when I didn’t talk they thought I was broken. Therapy and prayers didn’t help me to “bond correctly” and the shrinks said I was adopted too late. I was hardened by years in the Foster Care system. I never told them about the house, or the pimp, or the men I was sold to.
By 8 years old I had seen a lot, and I’d lost hope and trust in people, if I’d ever had any. What do you expect when I’d been thrown in and out of homes? Shuttled from foster home to foster home. I never knew who would hit me or who would hug me. I never felt safe, much less loved. The foster parents didn’t have time to deal with me. They took me to the shrink and made me go to school, but otherwise ignored me. Sometimes I was terrorized by older kids. But sometimes it was peaceful and I'd wonder if I could stay there. I never did, my luck had never been good, nothing had ever seemed to go my way.
Now, at eighteen, I’m on the streets. I think it's been about six months since my adoptive parents kicked me out with one hundred dollars in guilt money, and a backpack full of clothes. They’d adopted me after years of not being able to have a child of their own. Then, low and behold, a miracle. They were finally able to have the child they had always dreamed of. That left me as the black sheep, the elephant in the room that nobody wanted to touch, but whispered about when they thought I couldn’t hear. I knew what was coming; in fact I helped it along. I still didn’t speak to anyone but I pushed their buttons here and there. Pushing them to do the inevitable.
By not defending myself I was aiding in their attempts to make me the bad guy. I became the scapegoat. Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong, and it was my fault. It didn’t even matter that I hadn’t had anything to do with whatever the problem was. They were looking for a reason to get rid of me, so I gave them one. The one hundred dollars they gave me, as guilt money, is gone. I was able to stretch it out, but one hundred dollars doesn’t last long. You have to learn quickly on the streets, always have your eyes open, and never let anyone get close to you.
Now, I know the soup kitchens that have the best soup, and which ones serve an actual meal. Feeding myself on the streets always leaves gaps. I’m always hungry. I have to know which restaurants dump their excess food, and when it's safe to go through their dumpsters. I know whether or not they’ll chase me away, or come out with a to go box that will last me a day, maybe two. I’ve even silently “befriended” a cook's assistant into leaving the food at the side of the dumpster so it doesn’t smell like trash. As long as I put what I don’t want in the dumpster, there’s no problem. But, he doesn’t work everyday. Sometimes my grumbling, empty stomach is the only reason I get up.
Panhandling is hard on my soul. People with money, new clothes and families pass by like I don’t exist. Who wants to make eye contact with a dirty bum? I know how I look, and I hate it. They don’t even look at me. They just think I’m worthless scum. That’s all I am to them. I’m not a human being, not a person with feelings. Sometimes they throw money at me to make themselves feel better. A dollar’s worth of their charity makes them better somehow. Ha! They don’t think about how hard it is to stay clean on the streets. I clean myself in sinks when I can. God Damn it! I have no other choice! Not that I believe in God anyway. If there is a God, I've never had anything but bad luck from him. I guess he thinks I’m worthless too. When I panhandle it crushes my soul.
Sometimes a “care package” comes along with going to certain soup kitchens. Small bags containing a toothbrush and some deodorant if I’m lucky. Little things like razors are a gift. I long for a shower. I want to take a shower without having to watch out for the people just waiting to take advantage of you. I want hot water to wash over me, steaming hot water, to wash away the grit and grime that covers me. I’ve tried to get a bed in the shelters a time or two, but that's more dangerous than sleeping on the streets. Your chances of getting raped are three times more likely in a shelter. I’d love to be able to sleep without one eye open. I wish for a lot of things, but if wishes were ponies then peasants would ride. I read that somewhere and it stuck. I haven’t got any ponies but I wish anyway.
The people that walk by think you're just lazy. It's not that I don't want to work, I would if I could, to get out of this hell hole of a life. But I don’t have a birth certificate, or a driver’s license, so I can't get honest work. And any under the table jobs don’t pay much, unless you put out. Sometimes pimps try to get to me with promises of money and food, or a place to stay, but I’m not that stupid. I've seen what they do to those girls desperate enough to agree. I’m not that desperate. Yet...
Today, I lucked out and Charlie brought me a huge ‘to go’ plate from inside the D&C Diner. I hope he doesn’t get in trouble for helping me out. The ‘to go’ box will definitely feed me for at least two days, if I can make it last. Smiling and waving he went back to work. He didn’t see the tears that fall from my eyes. I try never to let anyone see me cry. It's a sign of weakness and can get you killed, or raped. My tough facade has kept people away, but I’m afraid they're getting curious.
I decide to go to one of my secret spots. I’m sure others have been there, but so far I haven't actually seen them. Trash and the remnants of a fire prove that it’s not really secret. I don’t light fires because they draw too much attention. It's only me, and if two, or even three, people come to find the fire it could get dangerous real fast.
Shuffling back into the large culvert, I sit down to gorge on the food Charlie gave me. I know I have to save some, but it's the first time I've eaten in close to 48 hrs. The eggs and bacon have gone cold, but I don’t care. It's food and I didn't have to scrape through some other trash to find it. I’m in heaven. It's almost like I’d gone to a restaurant, picked out and ordered the food. Almost like I was a real person who paid for the food. Almost normal.
Then I hear a footfall. Looking up, I’m far enough inside the culvert that whoever it is can’t see me. I scuttle back even further hoping it's just a city worker, or something, and they’ll leave me alone as long as I leave them alone. I hear the scraping of their shoes, and see the outline of a man. Oh please, Oh please, don’t see me. I’m not really here, I’m almost chanting those lines in my head. I’m terrified that this will be the day I’m raped again, maybe even killed. Who would care if I died anyway? If my adopted family was contacted they would tell everyone that I was a runaway. Maybe out of guilt they would pay for my funeral. Maybe I’ll just be put in Potter’s field, just another John Doe.
************* David I have followed this scarecrow of a boy for two days. He never noticed me tailing him because I’d been Military trained and I would only be noticed if I wanted to be. I’d been told the boy showed signs of being a true sub. I could almost feel the fear radiating off him. He’ll need to be handled gently. He’ll need to learn that I’ll take care of him, and that I’ll never hurt him.
Charlie was right, this boy needs help. He’s ragged and dirty but with the face of an angel. He won’t last much longer on his own. My ship only docked three days ago or I would have started looking for him much sooner. I requested leave for 30 days, as I was already planning to be with Charlie as much as I could during my time off. I’m in need of the rest and relaxation.
Charlie is former Military, it's strange how we met. Neither of us knew each other from the ship and we accidently met at a club. We talked for several hours. Bringing Charlie home with me and finding out we were a perfect pair, was one of the best days of my life.
He’s out of the military now and where he wants to be, manning a grill and bossing the staff around. At least he’s happy. How he can be happy sl
aving away at a greasy spoon is beyond me. The food is good though.
Our relationship is... different. Charlie is both a friend and lover, but he’s a switch. He’s both Dom and sub but he only Dom he’s willing to sub for is me. I’m a true Dom, no switching sides for me, so he has to reach outside of our relationship to fulfill his other needs. We have an open relationship because I’m gone at least six months of the year and it’s impossible for him to get all he needs while I’m gone. Charlie thinks maybe this boy will strengthen our relationship. If we have a third maybe we won’t need to have an open relationship. Plus, he can be the Dom while I’m deployed and get what he needs without having to look for one night stands. I love Charlie, so I’ll try anything to make this work. Neither of us like the hole in our love life. Maybe this boy will be just what we need.
Most people think the Dom has all the power in the BDSM culture. That’s not true. The sub is the one that has the ultimate say in any Dom/sub relationship. They have the power to say stop, and if they do and the Dom doesn’t stop, that’s not true BDSM. That’s rape. Even in a Dom/slave relationship, a true one, the slave has the right to say stop. Trust is key in these types of relationship. The sub, or slave, trusts the Dom to push their boundaries, to help them feel both pleasure and pain, which are so very wonderful mixed together. The pain strengthens the power of the pleasure and vice versa. If they trust the Dom to make them fly, to test their limits but not go too far, they can let go of their inhibitions, their worries, their lives, and just feel.
“Subspace” is a state of body and mind, where all you do is feel. Pleasure and pain, while strictly monitored, is the ultimate goal of real Doms. Trust is the key to getting them there.
Charlie has been writing letters to me about this boy. He told me it would be a tragedy for someone so pretty to be lost to the streets. I just came home after six months deployment and I’m looking at least thirty days leave, unless they call us in. We’re still in Afghanistan, so we’re always on alert. I need to be ready to go at a moment's notice but I think I’ll be using my leave to help this boy learn his place.
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