by Paul Blades
He put the milk down on the table and walked over to the bed. He told the girl to roll over. After untying her wrists from the bed, he brought them back behind her again and tied them off. He freed her ankles and made her get up. He brought her over to the table and sat her in her chair.
Carly was glad to get out of bed, but not happy to have her arms tied off behind her again. When he did that, she felt that she had been transformed into another animal, not a human anymore. Humans had hands. They used them to eat and open doors and clothe themselves. If she had no hands, she wasn’t human.
When he sat her down in the chair, she immediately, without having to be told, spread her legs widely so that her knees were on the outside of the feet. She leaned back so she could sit straight. “I’m well trained,” she thought miserably.
Jack had the same thought. He laughed to himself. He leaned over and took her breasts in his hands and squeezed them. Not for her benefit, but for his. He loved the feel of them. Then he scooted his hand down and let a finger trace the inside of her labia. She gave a little jump. She was still sensitive there. He smiled.
It was time for lunch. He brought out another can of stew for himself, the last one, and opened a can of soup for her. It was chicken vegetable. She needed some protein, but not too much. He took a pot out of the drawer underneath the stove and poured in the soup. He was going to warm it for her. He had his reasons. While it cooked, he took out two clean bowls and put them on the table. When the soup just started to bubble, he took it off the range, brought it over to the table and poured it into one of the bowls. He returned to the stove and, after rinsing out the pot in the sink, put two cups of milk in it. He turned the heat to low.
He went back to the table. He took the bowl of soup and put it on the floor. He sat down in his chair opposite to the girl and pried the ball out of her mouth. He sat back. And waited.
Her mouth turned into a frown. She knew what he expected her to do, but did not want to do it, though she knew she would. Then she reconsidered, wondering whether she should move without permission. She started to move, hesitated, and looked to him for approval. He nodded his head. She got up, knelt on the floor, bent over and began to eat.
“See,” he said to himself. “Just like a well trained dog.”
He opened his can of stew and started to eat it. It was amusing to watch her. Soup was harder to eat that way than beans, if not as messy. And it was just this side of warm. She tried to lap it up, but it was too hot. She looked at him forlornly and then started to blow on it. It took about a minute to cool enough for her to eat it. Then, obediently, she started up her meal.
She slurped up the liquid part and sucked up the chicken and pieces of vegetable. Her breasts jiggled and swayed each time she leaned over to gobble up some more food. She had to spread her legs widely in order to get her head low enough to put her mouth in the bowl. When she leaned up after taking a mouthful of chicken or vegetables so she could chew it, some soup would dribble from her lips and down her chin. He was done before her and he lit a smoke and continued to watch her. When she had just about finished the soup she lathered her tongue all over the bowl to make sure that she got every drop. “Good girl,” he thought. Then she knelt up and looked at him hostilely. Her chest was covered with a greasy sheen.
He got up and got the milk. He poured that into the other bowl and put it down before her, removing the licked clean soup bowl. Her brows furrowed and she hesitated again, but fear won out over pride and she went to work on that bowl too. It was not as hot as the soup had been and she didn’t lean up so much then. She just kept slurping and licking. It was funny.
She finished her milk at the same time that he finished his smoke. She knelt back with a little beard of white on her chin. He got up and got a paper towel. After wetting it, he came back to the girl and wiped her face and chest and cleaned off her tits. It was easier than getting the bean sauce off her and they would be taking a shower in a little while anyway.
He had something to do and so he wanted to make sure that the girl didn’t give him any trouble. He fished the joint out of the ashtray, cleaning off the cigarette ashes, and lit it up. He brought his chair next to where she knelt and proffered it to her mouth. She gave him a dirty look, but took a toke obediently. She held it for about 10 seconds and let it out. He made her repeat it until the joint was just a little nubbin. He put it out and made her eat it. Then he put the rubber ball back in her mouth.
Taking hold of her hair, he pulled her to her feet and led her back to the bed. He made her lie down on her belly and tied off her ankles.
When he got back to the table, he commenced cleaning up from lunch. He took another pull from the milk jug and put it away. He tossed the empty stew and soup cans in the garbage. He took the dishes to the sink and washed them. There was no drain board so he put a couple of paper towels and spread them across the table. He could have left the dishes for the old man to clean up, but for some reason he didn’t want the guy to think he was a slob. He also didn’t want to give the guy any special reason to remember them.
Carly lay on the bed, the room spinning. Between eating and the joint, a wave of exhaustion passed through her. At first, she had been pleased that the man at least warmed up the soup. But when he gave her the warmed milk, she realized that he had some other purpose than making her eating experience more enjoyable. She lapped it down anyway, afraid not to. When he had her smoke the joint, she was sure. He had warmed up the food so that, after she drank it, she would get tired as it settled in her stomach. Smoking the joint would multiply the soporific effect. If that was the plan, it was working. She was fading fast. She could hear the man doing something, cleaning up the kitchen, she guessed. She didn’t hear him finish though. She fell fast asleep.
When he had finished with the dishes, he turned to check on the girl. As planned, she was fast asleep. He expected that she would continue that way for a while. He went over to the bags they had gotten at the convenience store and pulled out a steel pair of grooming scissors, some plastic razors and a can of shaving cream. Snapping a few paper towels from the roll, he brought everything with him to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror.
It was the same face he had seen for the last twenty five years or so. He had always worn a beard and shaggy hair. It was mostly because he liked it. But the other reason was a little more subtle. There were very few pictures of him and even fewer of him, at least since he turned 15, without a beard and long hair. His arrest pictures and the pictures they had of him when he was sent to the joint were also like that. Very few people who were alive today remembered what he looked like clean shaven and trimmed.
He started with the beard. He laid the paper towels in the sink to catch the hairs and began to snip off the longest parts. He was done in a couple of minutes. Then he removed the paper towels and started the hot water. He washed his face with it a few times and he lathered it up. Slowly, but surely, the teenage him emerged, but much, much older. “So that’s what I look like,” he thought as his face was revealed. He had forgotten. If it was a shock to him, it was going to be a real shock to the girl. She would think that he had switched places with somebody.
When he finished shaving his face, he replaced the towels in the sink and started on the hair. He didn’t want the hairs to go down the sink and maybe clog it. When the cops learned that he had been here, and he was sure that they eventually would, they were not stupid, maybe they wouldn’t figure out that he had shaved. But if the old man had to clean out the drain, they would for sure.
He had learned to cut his own hair in stir. A guard would watch as he used the tiny pair of scissors they allowed him to use and, when he was done, took it back. But those had just been trims, to keep him from looking like Methuselah. Now, he was going to do more than that. He was going to become Mr. Clean Cut.
He didn’t do too bad a job. He left it long enough so that it didn’t look like he had had a recent haircut. It was still shaggy in places, but the job woul
d withstand everything but a very close inspection. Especially at night when they would be traveling.
He wrapped up the hair in the paper towels and then made sure that all the strays were herded into the sink. He washed the bowl out thoroughly, running it for a full minute. Then, he looked into the mirror again. “Hiya, Jack,” he said to himself. “Not bad,” he thought. Except for his prison pallor, anyone might mistake him for Joe Paycheck, a regular dude: law abiding, respectful of womanhood and the flag, a Republican by preference, but registered Independent.
There was one more thing to do. He went out and checked on the girl. She was still in La La Land. He rummaged around and found her dress and then he retrieved his socks and boxers and took everything back into the bathroom. He filled up the bathtub to a few inches with warm water and tossed everything in. He took the bar of soap conveniently provided by the management, unwrapped it and proceeded to soap everything down. They would be traveling in fresh clothes. He didn’t bother with the girl’s underwear. She wouldn’t be wearing any.
After everything was soaped up, he drained the tub and filled it again. He rinsed the garments thoroughly. He had often cleaned his clothes in the sink in his cell. Sometimes, for unfathomable reasons, no clean clothes would be issued for a week or two. You needed clean habits to survive in the joint, especially if you wanted to maintain the respect of others, not to mention yourself.
When he was done rinsing, he emptied the tub and filled it again. The trick was to get all the soap out or the garments would end up stiff and scratchy. On the third rinse, he saw that no appreciable soap had been produced and he was satisfied.
He brought the clothes outside to the bedroom. The girl was still sawing logs. She looked cute like that, especially with her mouth bulged out a bit by the ball inside it. Just a teensy bit of blue appeared between her pearly white teeth. Her hands fluttered from time to time in their bonds. He took a close look at her nails to see if she needed to redo them. They looked okay. He wanted her looking sharp when they left, not bedraggled and worn out like a prisoner. He would have her redo her makeup.
He hung the dress from the crossbar of the window curtain in the front of the room by the heater with a hanger he had found in the utility closet. He hung his boxers and sox on the back of a chair and pulled it over to the heater. Everything should be dry in an hour or so.
Now what to do with himself? He looked at the clock. It was just before 2:30. He lit a smoke and brought the ashtray over to his side of the bed, by the bathroom. The girl moaned in her sleep and rolled to her side, facing him. Her thighs were jammed together and he could see the sparse, yellow forest above her mons. That gave him an idea. If he had shaved, she should too.
He went to the kitchen are and got a bowl of hot water. He put it on the floor by the bed while he went into the bathroom and retrieved the razor and shaving cream. He wouldn’t need the scissors; her bush was too light and sparse.
When he came out, he knelt by the bed and pushed the girl over. She gave a start as her bound hands poked into her back. Her eyes were wide with surprise. Then she saw him. She saw that his beard was gone. Her face cringed for some reason and tears started flowing from her eyes. He ignored them and untied her ankles. “Spread your legs,” he told her.
Carly had been dreaming, she wasn’t sure about what, but she had been a million miles from this little motel cabin. Her eyes sprang open when he rolled her over, not knowing what had happened. When she looked at him, she was shocked. He had shaved and cut his hair.
He looked ten years younger. But he didn’t look any less frightful. In fact, he looked more. Before, with his whiskered covering and long, unruly hair, he had been like some form of animal from the forest that had claimed her and dragged her to its lair. His cruelties had seemed natural, like that of a thoughtless wild beast acting from instinct. Now he looked human. A dark, sinister human. His eyes seemed more beady, her gaze more directed and fierce. His mouth, with its thin lips looked mean and cruel. He somehow seemed more conscienceless, more ruthless, like that dastardly guy who put the woman on the railroad tracks in cartoons. He seemed capable of doing that, of thoughtless, cruel, meaningless murder. A feeling of woeful despair shot through her and she began to cry.
She spread her legs like he told her. Then, at his direction, she spread them some more and lifted her knees. He shoved a pillow under her hips, raising her sex in the air. She wondered, frightfully, what he was going to do to her.
He brought the bowl up on the bed and sprinkled some water on her mature growth on her lower belly. Then he took the can of shaving cream, shook it just a little, and emptied a small pile on his left hand. The girl looked at him wide eyed. He rubbed the shaving cream into her hair until it was a mushy mess and then he began to scrape it away.
Within a short while, all the hair above her slit was gone. It was smooth and tender to the touch. The hair around her opening was a little trickier. He dragged the razor carefully around her labial lips, whisking away all the hair. He pushed her mons this way and that until he got it all, right down to the beginning of her perineum. When he was done, he crouched back and admired his handiwork.
It was so pretty! Her pussy had smooth clear lines surrounding the mysterious, wrinkled interior. It was easy to understand where the expression ‘camel toe’ had come from. They didn’t use to do this in his day, but the young guys coming into the joint would all talk about their girlfriend’s hairless pussies. It seemed so defenseless, pure and clean. It cried out for ravishment. He leaned over and placed his hand on her lower belly and then over her denuded love lips. It felt so good! He felt a little stubble here and there that he had missed and he brought the razor back over those spots. Where he had shaved appeared just a little red in spots, the irritation of a place that had never been shaved before. He remembered that she had some hand cream in her purse. He got up to get it.
Carly watched him go. Her pussy felt so much more vulnerable than it did before. There was no reason for it. It was no more or less available than it had been. Maybe it was the casual way he exercised his dominion over it. Like he owned it. And certainly like she had no say in the matter. She tried to visualize how it looked. Randy had asked her to do it once and she had refused. She was a mature woman not some prepubescent teen. She wanted him to treat her like a woman. Besides, it was slutty. She had seen some porn pictures on the internet and the women all had their pussies shaved. She wasn’t like them.
But maybe now she was. He had turned her into one of them. And he had widened the separation between their relative status in the scheme of things. She felt so much smaller, so much more at his mercy. He seemed so that much more powerful and evil. And she knew that her pussy would be so much more sensitive and responsive where her growth had protected it.
He came back with the hand cream. He let out a dollop on his right hand and smeared it over her lower belly where the hair had been. Then he took another dollop and stroked the lips to her pussy and the surrounding flesh. The cream had been cold, but his hands were hot. She felt her pussy warming. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore it, but that was impossible after all he had done to her. She felt him slide his thumb up and down between her love lips, lingering on her sleeping clit, and then back and forth again and again, slowly, softly until it found its way inside, facilitated by her growing moisture. He sank it into her, plunging it inside deeply several times and then ran it over her clit again which had begun to arise from its slumber. She couldn’t help the moan escape from her lips. He laughed.
He left here there while he put everything away. He took the clicker for the TV and punched it on. He retrieved his cigarettes and the ashtray from the table and dug out the bag of nachos he had bought and the liter of Pepsi along with some napkins. He went to his side of the bed, propped his and her pillows up against the headboard and leaned back. Carly kept lying on her back, her hands jammed against it with her legs splayed while he was doing this, too afraid to move without permission. She felt him grab her
hair and force her into a sitting position. Then he pulled her across his lap, face down.
His right hand idly caressed the flesh of her backside and thighs while he surfed the channels looking for something to watch. Her rear was raised slightly on his right hand side and her breasts were just outside of his thigh on the left, both equally available. Her legs were spread, giving him easy access to her denuded quim. Carly could just see the TV if she turned her head to the right, and she could hear it without problem. Her skin burned wherever his hand went and she concentrated on trying to ignore the lust stirring sensations.
A voice came on the television.
“…ities are still searching for prison escapee John ‘Blackjack’ Jackson who escaped from a medical detail while on his way back to Wolverton State Prison yesterday.” The announcer was clean cut, a white male, in a grey suit, white shirt and red tie. He was properly officious. A picture of her captor with his black beard and wild hair was shown on the screen behind him, up and to his left. “Two guards,” the voice continued, “who had been transporting him were murdered. Jackson was serving a triple life term for murder, racketeering, kidnapping and assorted other crimes. He is very dangerous. Anyone seeing him should report it to the 800 number displayed on your screen. Bill Murphy has the report.”
Another voice came on. Carly’s body had tensed. A huge pit formed in her stomach. She had suspected that her captor was a cruel and ruthless man and here was the very proof. He had killed two men just yesterday. Two guards. He was going to kill her, she just knew it. She started crying again.
“Thank you Everett,” the new voice said. It was a man, a little younger, but just as bland looking as the other. In the background was a visual of a huge, concrete wall with guard towers at either end. The prison. “State Attorney General Preston Baker has authorized a statewide manhunt for Blackjack Johnson. He was the leader of a notorious chapter of the Rogues Motorcycle Club, a lawless group whose activities terrorized the Wausau, Wisconsin area for years. The gang’s criminal activity has spread throughout the United States. No effort is being spared, Baker said, to apprehend this desperate criminal. Jackson, 47 years old, was born in…..”