She placed the bowl down. Humiliated, she lowered her head and began lapping the water. She was quickly losing her identity and starting to feel like a real dog.
“Good girl.” He patted her head. “I should call you Fido.”
Too thirsty to feel insulted by the suggestion of being called by a dog’s name, Chanelle licked around the bottom of the bowl, trying to get every bit of moisture.
“All right, that’s enough,” Reed said as he grabbed the hair on the crown of her head and yanked her away from the bowl. Still holding her hair, he scrutinized her lips and then tested the texture with the back of his hand. “Damn! Your lips are still hard as a damn Brillo pad. I’m gonna have to use some Vaseline to soften them up.” He groped his penis. “Seeing you crawling and lapping up that water got my dick hard.” He pulled her hair hard until she rose to her knees; he pushed her face and held it against the stiffness beneath his pants. “See what I mean?” His penis pulsated like a heartbeat against her face.
“I can’t leave you alone. You have to come with me while I get the stuff.” He led her into the bathroom where he smeared petroleum jelly on her lips and then promptly marched her back into the bedroom.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” Reed said as he unzipped his pants. “It wouldn’t be wise to disappoint me,” he warned. He grabbed his dick and thumped her on the side of her face. “Come on; get on it!”
Feeling more degraded than she thought humanly possible, Chanelle took him inside her mouth.
“Mmm, yeah, baby. Work those lips. Start earning some of that money I paid you,” he said as she gave him head.
Chanelle worked her lips, her tongue, her jaws, and her throat, determined to give the best blowjob of her life.
After the blowjob, Reed wanted sexual intercourse. He took her downstairs and sexed her in a dozen different positions, violated her for hours, yet he still was unsatisfied and kept coming back for more. Chanelle’s vaginal lips were beet red, swollen, and sore.
Reed bragged that drinking liquid ginseng made him as virile as an eighteen-year-old.
Now, after drinking another bottle of the golden elixir, he demanded Chanelle do a handstand.
She gave him a look of disbelief. Then, remembering his threat, she instantly fixed her face and assumed a blank expression. To her relief, he didn’t strike her; he merely snarled and pushed her. “Get up and do your stage routine. Work that ass the way you do onstage.”
Fearing his intentions, Chanelle did as she was told but tried to do a handstand facing Reed. “Turn the fuck around, bitch; you don’t do it like that. Your ass should be facing me, not the wall.”
Obediently, Chanelle turned around and did what she was told.
“You better not fall; I’m warning you,” Reed muttered as he tried to get in the right position to enter her from behind. It was impossible to penetrate with her standing on her hands without support. “Get up against the wall,” he yelled in frustration. He pointed to a wall on the other side of the living room.
She crawled to the appointed place and waited for further instruction. “Do a handstand, bitch. Damn! Stand up against the wall!”
She complied. Reed got behind her and began brushing his penis up and down the crack of her ass.
She trembled in fear. Never, ever had she allowed anyone to fuck her in the ass. The very thought of such a violation caused her anus to nervously contract. Reed spread her cheeks and slathered cold lubricant inside the sensitive area. Anticipating excruciating pain, Chanelle bit down on her lip and waited.
He held on to her ankles and slowly entered. Anal penetration was humiliating and hurt like hell. And standing upside-down during the abusive act increased the pain.
“Let me see that ass clap!” he demanded, slapping her backside as he worked his penis in and out of the virgin territory.
She tried to contract the muscles in her buttocks, but under the circumstances, it was painful and difficult. Tears formed in her eyes. She silently cried.
Later, after he allowed her to shower, Reed told Chanelle to join him back downstairs. He insisted that she sit at his feet—like a dog—while he watched TV. Bone tired from every horrible aspect of her ordeal, she drifted off to sleep.
Reed shook her awake, stomped into the kitchen, and came back carrying a metal spatula.
“Please don’t,” she whined as he waved the cooking utensil. Reed shook his head. She whimpered but didn’t struggle as he turned her over his lap. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! He counted each blow. The third hit cut into her ass. Wiping the blood from the spatula onto her back, he asked, “Did you ask me if you could go the fuck to sleep? Do you find me boring?”
Chanelle knew Reed would kill her if she cried; so she held back tears of pain and started talking. “No, Master; I’m not bored. It won’t happen again. Please don’t hit me anymore.”
With Chanelle lying across his lap, Reed whispered in her ear. “You know my dick gets real hard when you talk like that. Why are you talking so sexy? Don’t tell me you want some more of this good dick?” He rubbed his crotch and gave her a lewd crooked smile.
She was in a quandary as to how she should reply; she couldn’t endure any more penetration. But having good common sense and knowing the words this monster wanted to hear, Chanelle replied in a docile tone, “Yes, Master. I want some more of your good dick.”
“Damn, you’re a horny bitch.” He pushed her off his lap. “Not right now, I’ll give it to you later. I have to make a quick run to South Street. I want to buy some of those freaky sex gadgets. Let’s see…what do we need?” He stroked his chin thoughtfully and then brightened. “Oh yeah, we’ll need a leash, a collar, and something that’ll cause some pain. Something like nipple pinchers, a whip…those sorts of things. You know what I mean?”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered mournfully as she recovered from being thrown onto the floor. She steadied herself into a seated position on the floor, but remembering that dogs don’t sit up like people, she scrambled to her hands and knees.
Reed glanced at her. A perturbed look crossed his face. “Kneel,” he commanded. But before Chanelle could respond, he changed his mind. “No…fuck kneeling. Beg, bitch.”
Chanelle blinked rapidly and changed her position. She sat on her haunches, allowing both wrists to hang limp. Her tongue lolled out and hung over her bottom lip. For good measure, she panted just like a dog.
Reed smacked her in the face with the spatula. “Stop blowing your funky breath in my face; I didn’t tell you to do all that,” he roared, threatening her with a wave of the spatula.
“I’m sorry, Master. I’m so very sorry, Master. And I can’t wait for you to get back and discipline me with your new devices.”
She was playing along but she’d be damned if she was going to stick around and wait for him to come back with a bag filled with some weapons of torture.
Satisfied with her response, Reed marched her back upstairs, blindfolded and gagged her, and retied her to the bed posts.
Feeling utterly helpless, Chanelle realized with certainty that Reed would kill her before he’d set her free. It was her darkest hour and she knew it would take a miracle for her to survive this ordeal.
When Chanelle heard the front door close and then the sound of the car backing out of the driveway, she began to fervently pray for a miracle.
Chapter 41
She’d only spent a few weeks in jail and wouldn’t have had to stay for that amount of time if she hadn’t been hit with an old prostitution-related bench warrant. It was cool, though. She needed the break—to chill, clean out her system, and get her weight up.
Out of jail for two days, Buttercup needed a place to rest her head. Trying to get into a city homeless shelter was a bitch. She knew the drill. They ran you ragged, making you sign up at the main office that was located on Ridge Avenue in North Philly. If she expected to get a bed, she had to go to the office to get her name processed in the computer. After all that aggravation, the next step w
ould be to trek to the Women’s Shelter downtown on Broad Street. Once she arrived at the Women’s Shelter, there was a strong possibility that her name still wouldn’t be in the computer. And if the downtown Women’s Shelter was too crowded, she’d have to hoof it all the way back to West Philly to wait in line at another shelter on Forty-Second and Parrish. It was a shame the way they ran people all over town for just a cot and one damn hot meal.
Before she could even begin to start the long journey, Buttercup had to get lit! There was no way she could stand in any of those long-ass lines with a bunch of funkyass people unless she was high as a kite. But getting high required money, so there she sat in the front seat of a police squad car in Fairmount Park—the headlights turned off, the car hidden behind trees.
She spit the bitter liquid out of the passenger window and wiped her mouth with a Burger King napkin she found tucked in a crevice between the seat and the door.
Despite the fact that cops were always locking her ass up and making her give them blowjobs at half-price and sometimes for free, at least one of them was good for something. “So, did you get me that information?” she asked the officer, whom she had just finished servicing.
He lifted his butt from the seat to zip up his pants. “Yeah, I got it; here you go,” he said and gave her a piece of paper. “All right, come on now…I gotta get back to work. Where do you want to be dropped off?”
She looked at the paper, then looked at the cop hopefully. “Can you take me up there?”
“Now you know that’s out of my jurisdiction; I can’t drive you that far,” the cop complained.
“All right, how far can you take me?”
“I can take you as far as Fifty-Fifth and Pine. I gotta get back to the station,” he replied with undisguised irritation.
“That’s going in the opposite direction,” she said, matching his tone. “Just let me out at that A-Plus gas station over on Thirty-Eighth and Girard.”
The cop pulled out of the darkness and cruised onto the street. He swung into the parking lot of the brightly lit service station.
Buttercup got out, slammed the door, and walked around to the driver’s side. “Since you won’t give me a ride, can you at least give me a tip?”
“Damn, you’re a pest,” the cop grumbled. Begrudgingly, he gave her a ten-dollar bill and roared out of the lot. He made a sharp left turn and then turned on the lights. The siren blared as he sped off in the direction of Fifty-Fifth and Pine.
Buttercup successfully hitched a ride but the guy who picked her up insisted on getting a handjob for his trouble. It seemed everybody wanted something; good Samaritans seemed to be a thing of the past.
The driver took her to her destination—a quiet tree-lined street. The soft lighting of a lamppost illuminated the piece of paper with the address she was looking for.
The house was dark, no parked car or truck. No people roaming around; no sign of life. Good. That’s the way she liked it. Money was tighter than tight and her best bet was to get inside the house she was casing. There was a lot of money in there; she just had to figure out a way to break in.
She walked around the back and used her shoe to tap the basement window and then wiggled her thin body inside.
She tiptoed around the dark basement and found the stairs easily. Breaking and entering was not a new activity for her, but she felt an adrenaline rush because this time it was personal. She intended to take back something that rightfully belonged to her.
Careful not to turn on a light, but wishing she’d had the sense to ask the cop for a flashlight, she crept around the kitchen, then the dining and living rooms. Where do people usually keep their money? She stopped pacing. Standing still helped her think. Upstairs! The money would definitely be upstairs in a bedroom, hidden in a bureau drawer. Excited, she quietly climbed the stairs. Yeah, most people stashed their dough in their bedrooms, she decided as she counted the rooms in the hushed, dark hallway.
She heard a rustling sound coming from one of the bedrooms and almost peed on herself. She should have cussed that punk cop out for not accompanying her. He had talked some shit about not being able to do anything without a search warrant. Shit, from her experiences with cops, they always did whatever the fuck they wanted—with or without a damn search warrant.
The rustling sound grew louder and Buttercup headed for the stairs, and then changed her mind. Fuck it…I’m out! But along with the rustling, she heard something else that made her freeze. Her legs ceased to move; her heart clenched up and refused to beat.
“Help!” someone cried from one of the rooms. Help? Who the fuck is that? Buttercup asked herself. Damn, it’s just my luck to run up into some fucked-up bullshit!
Terrified, but not having the heart to turn away from the tortured voice, she opened the door and with much hesitation, she clicked on the light.
She let out a small scream when she saw the tied-up girl. Electrical tape covered the girl’s mouth. There was a ragged opening in the center; the girl had obviously chewed through the tape.
Buttercup didn’t go near the ravaged girl; she was too afraid. If the girl had bitten through that tape, she might be starved and crazy enough to bite Buttercup as well. Leaving the girl sniffling and whimpering, Buttercup found a phone in another bedroom. She supposed there were still some good Samaritans out there. But she’d never have imagined herself playing that role. Life was sure strange. Smiling proudly, she lifted the receiver and dialed 9-1-1.
Fuckin’ cops didn’t appreciate nothing! She’d helped them catch that bastard perpetrator but they still wouldn’t leave her alone. She’d been answering their endless stream of questions for what seemed like hours.
The bastards came right out and asked if she’d had sex-for-pay with the man, trying to trick her into saying something that would land her back in jail. But Buttercup was no fool. She concocted a story about being held hostage, too. And since she knew firsthand about Reed’s penchant for beating on women, she laid it on thick. With tears streaming, she told the officers, “He tied me up to the bed, duct-taped me, and tried to tear up my private parts.”
“What?” asked an incredulous female officer who, judging by her expression, felt personally offended.
“He told me he was going to fuck me until my pussy lips started bleeding.”
“And did that happen?” a male officer asked, appalled and unable to keep a straight face. He scratched his head and scrunched up his face as he regarded Buttercup with horrified curiosity.
“What?” Buttercup asked.
“Did he…you know…cause your womanly parts to bleed?”
“Hell no! Once he started talking about putting his mark on me—”
“His mark?” the officers asked in unison.
“Yeah, he said he was going to keep me tied up and fuck me until my pussy was all torn up and raw. He said he’d do it all day and all night if necessary. Said he wouldn’t stop until my coochie looked raggedy and well fucked.”
The officers shared a look of revulsion.
“He said my stuff is too pretty,” Buttercup said with pride.
The female officer rubbed her forehead wearily. “And did he make these same remarks to Chanelle Lawson?”
“He had me tied up downstairs; she was upstairs. Like I said, I don’t know what he was doing with her; you have to talk to her if you want her side of the story. Now, can I please leave?”
“Not just yet. We have a few more questions.”
“Damn, y’all done had me up in here long enough. Shit, I need a lawyer.”
An hour later, an important-looking attorney that she could never have afforded came to her rescue and put a stop to the questioning.
The expensively attired attorney, who spoke in an authoritative tone, was on point. The cops didn’t have a case against Buttercup and finally had to let her go.
Outside the police station, the news media descended upon her, sticking microphones in her face. “How’s it feel to be a hero?” someone called. “Did y
ou know Chanelle Lawson before you two were held hostage? How do you feel now that you’re free?” another asked.
“Don’t say a word to these vultures,” the lawyer advised her. “I’ve already arranged an exclusive with one of the tabloids. Chanelle Lawson refuses to talk about the ordeal, so they’re willing to pay twice the amount for your story. You can pretty much write your own check.”
Buttercup smiled. Yeah, most people saw her as a worthless crackhead. But this crackhead had enough sense to memorize her so-called boyfriend’s license plate. The cop had paid her only ten dollars for a blowjob, but she’d gotten him to run boyfriend’s license plate and give her his home address. Now, she was going to get paid!
It didn’t matter that she conveniently pretended to have been held hostage. What people didn’t know surely couldn’t hurt them.
Besides, after all the bullshit that bastard had put her through, she deserved to get some revenge. Not only had he literally fucked her over, pretended to be her boy-friend, stole her grandma’s money, but the muthafucker also had the nerve to use a fake-ass name.
She wondered if there was another can of money left in her great-grandmother’s house. Since she was about to strike it rich, she didn’t have to snoop around in the abandoned house, but she had plenty of addicted friends who could use the money. No one understood or cared about people with addictions; they were despised and persecuted. So Buttercup decided she would try to help her friends stay high by putting the word out that there was possibly a large sum of money stashed somewhere in her great-grandmother’s house.
Feeling like a philanthropist, she fell in step with her attorney as he approached his limo. The driver got out and opened the door for Buttercup.
“We’re going to put you up at the Marriott,” the attorney informed her. “Is that all right?”
“Fabulous,” she responded. Staying at the Marriott and ordering room service and having her drugs delivered was a lifestyle she could get used to.
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