Chapter Three
The rain pelted Andrea’s head. Still naked and harnessed under her raincoat, she had little protection from the powerful spring deluge. With every step, she stumbled anew, her awkward heels catching in the pock marked shoulder of the asphalt road. It was miles back to her hotel, but she didn’t care. This was what she deserved; this and much, much more.
A horn honked, as a car screeched to a halt just behind her. It was Tom again. For the last half hour, they’d been playing a game of cat and mouse, with him pulling up alongside, trying to get her in the car, and then, when she ignored him, speeding ahead, to try to stop her. After a few minutes of this, he would double back, pull up again and it would start all over.
Tom yelled something, then he was driving again, just behind her, honking and honking. He’d tried to keep her from leaving the condo, and then to give her a ride to her hotel, but she’d refused. What did he expect? That she should be normal and reasonable at a time like this? She’d just ruined her sister’s life, her innocent sister, the one who’d welcomed her with open arms, told her she would share everything, the money, all of it.
What could she ever say to her sister? Sorry, Ash, but when you said you’d share everything; I thought you meant Tom’s cock, too? Andrea shook her sopping head, in a vain attempt to keep the tiny rivers of rain water from running into her mouth. What was wrong with her, anyway? How could she have done this—broken the heart of her long lost twin, the one she never knew she had till two months ago? And why had she gone after Tom in the first place? She could have any man that was no secret, so why choose her sister’s one true love? She’d destroyed a sacred bond, that’s what she’d done, and that made her something less than human. No longer her daddy’s little princess, adored by all and lusted after by males everywhere, Andrea was dirt now. Lower than dirt.
“For God’s sake!” Tom shouted, leaning out his window as he pulled alongside her. “Get in the damned car, will you please!?”
Andrea stuffed her hands in her soggy pockets and doubled her pace. “Go home, Tom.”
He slammed his palms on the wheel and then sped off. A few seconds later, however, she could see him coming towards her again, backing up, looking like he was going to run her over. At the last second, he slammed on the brakes. This time, he opened the door and got out. Marching towards her with an umbrella, wearing shorts, a t-shirt and flip-flops hastily thrown on, he put himself directly in her path. “You’re acting like a child, Andrea, get in the fucking car, now.”
She slapped him hard across the cheek. “Don’t tell me how I’m acting, you bastard! Exactly whose dick was that stuck in my ass, anyhow? Now get out of my way, or I’ll kick you in the balls, I swear to God!”
Tom grabbed her arm and she followed through on her threat. He doubled over at once, onto the asphalt. Serves him right, she thought as she walked over him. She did turn back, though, after a quarter mile or so, because he was just the type to actually die out here without help.
She found him leaning against the hood of his car. “Are you okay?”
“Okay?” he growled, spinning round to seize her upper arms. “Now there’s an intelligent question!”
“You’re hurting me.”
“I don’t care. You’re going in this car.”
Andrea tried to kick again, but this time he was ready. In a split second, he had spun them both around and had her pressed back against the car hood. The metal was warm, vibrating with the pulse of the powerful engine. His thigh between her legs, pelvis pinning hers, employing his natural male strength, breath in her face, he said, “Are you ready to get in this car?”
“Fuck me first.”
Tom backed off, like she was an electrical conductor. “What? Are you crazy?”
Andrea tore at her soaked coat. “Why not? It’s not like we have anything to lose.”
He stared open mouthed as she bared her wet body, arching her back over the smooth metal, doing things to herself with her hands. Like a moth to a flame, he went to her, seeking her rain-pelted sex.
“Get a condom,” she said, putting her hands on his chest to halt his advance.
Fortunately for both of them, he had one in the glove compartment. “Just a minute!” he called from the front seat, scrambling to put it on. This kind of protection was a necessity for Andrea, for reasons beyond the obvious. It was her father who’d drilled into her a special, almost mystical idea of conception and of keeping one’s womb pure for the right person.
“When you find the man whose children you’ll bare, give yourself to him unconditionally,” he’d told her long before she understood the meaning of the words. “Not before, and never again afterwards with another.”
“Not this way,” she told Tom, when he tried to mount her on the hood. “I want you to take me down there.”
He looked down into the ravine where she was pointing. “But it’s all muddy,” he said, his voice a pathetic whine.
She grabbed the collar of his t-shirt. “That’s right, Tom,” she smiled sarcastically. “I want you to actually be a man and force me down there, then I want you to make me lie down in the mud and fuck me like the whore I am. Think you can handle that?”
He swore at her, but he did what she wanted, pulling her by the wrist as he stumbled over the edge of the lonely roadway. The ground squished beneath them as they walked.
“Here!” she cried when the cool, thick ooze was as deep as their ankles. “Force me, here!”
She didn’t wait for him to act. Pulled down on top of her, Tom landed with a thud. “Fuck me!” she hissed. “Like an animal.”
He plunged into her, but not before rechecking the condom’s positioning on his still preserved erection. His motions were furious, like a piston, and he grunted with satisfaction, finishing himself off in seconds. She looked at his face. Simple bastard. What man wouldn’t want to use a woman like this, taking no responsibility for her feelings? Well, it’s what she deserved, that was for sure.
To increase her punishment, she’d taken no pleasure in the act herself, allowing him to rut and puff and finally shoot himself off. Her lack of passion didn’t seem to diminish Tom’s enjoyment any, however. Funny, how she’d never noticed this before, she thought, how little he cared about her reactions.
“Shit,” he muttered as he climbed off. “Look at me, I’m a mess. I’ll never get this crap off my shoes. Come on,” he urged, “let’s get out of here.”
Andrea refused his extended hand. “Leave me here,” she said.
He laughed. “Are you insane? Look around—there could be wild dogs out here, or worse.”
“Good. I hope I’m raped to death by a pack of wild dogs or worse.”
Tom spat out a healthy batch of curse words, then stooped to pick her up.
“Let go!” she squealed, squirming in his arms.
He threw her over his shoulder, showing surprising strength. “No. I’m taking you back home to get you cleaned up.”
How gallant, she thought, cynically. He probably just wanted another round with her, a nice two-hour blowjob while he watched the sports channel. And why not? Didn’t they say that rabid dogs could smell out a bitch in heat miles away? Should she be surprised that someone like him would size her up, exploit her slutty nature yet again? Sure, she’d go home with him, and eagerly, too.
“This is for your own good,” he declared, laying her across the backseat and covering her with a blanket so no one would see her for the drive home. “You’ll see.”
***
Ashley was enjoying the drive, and getting the hang of Andrea’s peppy little car, to boot. It was a good thing, too, because the club listed on Andrea’s matchbook was in a part of Orlando Ashley had never been. She’d need all her skills. There might even be danger involved. All the better, she thought grimly, to mark her debut into a new life, a new identity as a true pain slut. She hoped she’d find the way. The directions, along with the matchbook itself were still on her dresser. She’d forgotten them before
she left, having been distracted by Libby’s tears. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her mother, but everything was so unclear all of a sudden.
Turning Andrea’s car efficiently to the left, Ashley entered the Cross-town expressway. She’d be going over two bridges and into the heart of the city, into a section well out of her familiar little world. Funny, she’d never thought of her life as sheltered till tonight. Nothing was as it seemed, she mused, watching the rain bead on the windshield. Here she was, raised by the perfect mother, sent to all the best schools, groomed to marry a banker’s son, a good steady mate who’d give her a happy home of her own, bringing her children who could visit their grandparents every weekend.
But Andrea had ruined all that, upset the apple cart, shattered the dream, whatever cliché you wanted to use. Oh, how she needed some gum – no, another drink, that was it. At the club, maybe she’d order something for herself. She didn’t like drinking, and she wished Tom wouldn’t either. Better still, she wished he’d put his foot down where she was concerned, say no to her sometimes, like the night they went to dinner to celebrate Andrea’s arrival, and he’d let her drink three glasses of champagne. She’d been so out of it, she’d had Tom take Andrea back and leave her in the lounge.
Why didn’t Tom ever say no to her? she wondered, swerving to the left lane to avoid a perilously slow junker. Why didn’t he ever care enough to ask where she’d been, or comment on her wardrobe, what he’d like to see, etc? And why had he never once just taken her in his arms and made her kiss him, cutting her off in mid sentence and not releasing her till she was doe eyed, docile and attentive to his every need?
A tractor-trailer swooped in from behind flashing its high beams impatiently, and in the blaze of light, Ashley had a vision. A vision of herself in Tom’s bed, in Andrea’s place. Only she wouldn’t do those disgusting things willingly like her sister. She’d have to be forced to dress that way. Made to strip off her decent clothes and put on that humiliating, outrageous get up, made to go to bed that way, so Tom could play his sick games with her. And it would all start with that one kiss, the one that would be sprung on her open, talking mouth, that kiss that would change everything.
“You made my dick hard, Ashley,” he would say when he released her, breathless and woozy. “Now you have to do something about it. Take off your clothes, Ash; it’s time for you to slip into something a lot less comfortable. Like a collar and…”
A surge of electricity shot down Ashley’s spine as she thought again about the whip she’d seen on the bed, next to Ashley’s stocking clad thigh. The little black one, in plain sight. She wondered if it was like the one her mother had carried clenched between her teeth, the one she had learned to fear and respect, the one she’d told her daughter she yearned for in her dreams, even now.
A whip! How absurd. Imagine it. Tom, catching Ashley at something that irritated him—talking too much maybe, or beating him all the time at tennis—and her having to face the punishment, having to endure on her own tender flesh a device meant for a horse. How would he do it? Would he tie her up, or make her face the wall, her palms against it as he struck her, again and again. Or maybe he would simply use his hand to discipline her, taking her over his lap, like a school girl, making her wear that little pleated uniform skirt she had in catholic high school, so he could pull down her panties, baring her pink, wriggling cheeks.
Ashley had exited the highway by now, and was using her near photographic memory to find the correct side streets. Thoughts of whips, thoughts of spanking and leather persisted. She laughed at her own ideas, at how silly they were. No, she decided, parking a short ways down from the seedy looking smoked glass and neon covered structure known as The Edge, I’m not like them at all. I’m nothing like Libby or Andrea.
As if they cared!
She slammed the car door. Heels clicking on the cracked pavement, she considered the odds of death or dismemberment for a girl in her position, a single girl, provocatively dressed on a dark, sinister street, filled with alley ways populated by yellow faceless eyes peering out of every nook and cranny. Those odds didn’t seem good—that was for sure.
Ashley stepped over a sleeping drunk, trying to avoid soiling her favorite suede shoes. The neon beckoned ahead, and she could hear the tinny beat of cheap rock and roll music. The man guarding the door of The Edge—and she saw now it was a bar, not a club—looked like an original Hell’s Angel. Barely shifting on his stool, massive biceps still evident under rolls of fat beneath his shirtless leather vest, the bearded man looked her up and down, and then asked for ID.
Ashley said thank you when he handed it back and made a point of smiling. He just puckered his lips in a bored way and pulled down his leather cap, like he was going to take a nap. He seemed pretty vigilant, though, and she could see the sides of his eyes following her as she opened the painted glass door and went inside.
She’d half expected him to recognize her and call her Andrea, but he hadn’t. Maybe he didn’t know her or maybe he was pretending not to. It was very smoky inside and the smell of alcohol and cigarettes was nearly overpowering. From the few faces she could make out, scarred, cragged and surly; it was not a friendly place. It was also very far from being the sort of ironic, avant-garde nightclub she’d hoped for.
Clutching her spare purse, feeling both horribly naked and terribly overdressed at the same time, she made her way to the bar. A woman with spiked hair and a dog collar twice the size of her sister’s took her order. The woman never heard of any of Ashley’s brands of water, so she settled for a beer. Ashley said thank you very much, wishing she had a few minutes in private to give the girl some tips on her makeup. All that black on her lips and eyebrows just didn’t suit her coloring at all.
Sipping from the bottle as delicately as she could, Ash tried to take in her surroundings. The bar was narrow and very long. There were tables and she noticed now that interspersed with the biker types were some men in suits. Interesting. A lot of them were looking down to the back, where there appeared to be some kind of stage. Yes, it was a stage with a pole and colored lights. A loud cheer went up as a blonde with a staggeringly large chest waltzed onto the wood surface wearing a silver two-piece outfit with hanging tassels.
Pretending to be interested, and trying not to peel the label of her bottle (an action she’d once read in a magazine was a signal used by women to show sexual need) Ashley made the best of the show. It was an experience, after all. People were looking at her, though, particularly men, and when she’d catch them at it, they’d just grin or wink instead of being ashamed, which they should have been. Plus, she was pretty sure the man next to her, just behind her left shoulder, was blowing kisses, though she didn’t dare look.
“Hey, you,” called a gruff voice, in accented Australian. “Yea, mate, I’m talking to you.”
Ashley sighed in relief when she realized that the man wasn’t calling her, but the gentleman next to her, the one with the kissing problem.
“What do I want? How ‘bout you pissing off and leaving the lady alone, okay bloke?” she heard the Australian say. Unable to resist, she stole a peek at her newfound hero.
The Australian was a pale, muscular crew cut blonde who was wearing a very nice button down shirt with rolled sleeves and a loosened tie. He looked like a swimmer. He had two friends, she noticed, also well dressed and muscular, which meant the fellow harassing her didn’t stand a chance. One or two grumbles later and he was gone, not a shot fired.
“Round of brews for my mates,” he told the bartender, moving into the newly vacated space next to Ashley. “And one for the lady.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” she smiled demurely, trying to seem neither interested nor ungrateful.
“Sheila, you’re more than fine,” he grinned, running his hand down her back.
“I beg your pardon?!” she squealed.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, ignoring her protest as he rubbed a hand over his handsome chin. “You’re Kitty. No! Not Kitty. Andre
a, right?”
She bit her lip. The man knew her, or her sister at any rate. As for calling her Sheila, Ash was pretty sure that was down under slang for any girl.
“Yes, that’s right,” she nodded, trying to sound natural.
One of the others, taller and prematurely balding, smacked the Aussie on the back. “Jesus, don’t you even remember the names of the girls you shag?”
Shag, that meant intercourse, in English slang. She learned that her junior year of high school from an exchange student.
“Hey! I was drunk at the time!” the Aussie protested good-naturedly.
“Well that’s no way to impress a lady,” the Englishman declared, focusing his rather small and intense hazel eyes on Ashley. “I apologize for my friend’s rudeness. So tell me, have the marks healed over yet?”
Ashley nearly dropped the bottle. He wasn’t smiling. This was no joke. These men had obviously done things to her sister – wicked things. Blushing heavily under their curious gaze, she lowered her eyes to the floor.
“Now who’s a pig?” bellowed the third man, an American, his black hair slicked back in a neat ponytail. This one was built like a wrestler with massive biceps under his black silk shirt. “It’d serve her right if she told you both to go fuck yourselves!” he declared, elbowing his way forward. “As near as I can tell, that makes her all mine tonight.”
Ashley was rendered speechless as this huge man stepped up, took her bottle, set it on the bar and put his hands on her waist. “How about a little kiss, Andrea?”
“Knock it off,” the Australian told him lightly. “The lady told you last time, no kissing.”
He snapped his fingers, like he was annoyed with himself. “Oh, right, I forgot. Well how about a blow job, then?”
“H—here?” Ashley croaked.
There was a moment of awkward silence, then they were all three laughing. “’H—here!’ That’s a good one!” the Wrestler agreed, snaking an arm behind Ashley to give her a congratulatory squeeze on her buttocks.
Backwater Bondage Page 22