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Subject: {ASSM} (Ruthie's 4) Betsy Fifty Bucks (MF) ~ DrSpin
Date: Mon, 12 Jun 2000 15:10:47 -0400
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Betsy Fifty Bucks (MF)
by DrSpin
June 2000
(A "Ruthie's Foursome" Story)
===========================================================
Standard Disclaimer:
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is
to it. If any reader is offended, he/she should not have
been here in the first place and only has himself/herself
to blame. If this story is relocated, please leave my name
intact as the author and please include my email address.
===========================================================
* Ruthie's editing was needed.
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com
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I saved her from a back alley rape. Not the sort of thing I
make a habit of doing, but I thought I was doing the right
thing, I suppose. These three guys had her down on the
ground and one was kicking her, another was ripping at her
clothes, and the other was standing there laughing. It was
about three in the morning and I was out hunching along the
streets like I do sometimes. I see all kinds of shit and I
don't care. Usually. But you don't kick a girl, no matter
what she's done.
I'm pretty much a scary fucker. I know that because I see
it on people's faces and because I catch sight of my
reflection sometimes and even I might jump in fright. I'm
tall enough to be trouble and I don't have a pretty face.
It was okay once, not so long ago. But a few years of
doing not much but survive has made this face unsociable.
If you picked me out of a lineup for a serious crime I
couldn't blame you. I look the part.
I loomed up out of the darkness and told the three guys to
stop. They swung around looking for a fight. Then they
changed their minds. I can do that to people. Don't know
why. They look at my face and see, I guess, that I don't
give a fuck and then they lose their nerve. It happens. I
never get waylaid out on the streets.
They slid away into the darkness, muttering and looking
back. They were saying something about the girl but I
wasn't listening. She got up and dusted herself off.
Little, she was. Not much more than a kid.
"Who the fuck are you?" she asked. Only it was more like an
accusation.
"Nobody," I said. "You okay?"
She felt her ribs and winced. "I'll live. Thought I was in
big shit there but you came along at the right time. Look,
you want a coffee or something?"
"Coffee?" My natural instinct was to back off and keep
moving. But the word, or maybe the way she said it,
suddenly sounded good. I didn't drink coffee any more.
Hadn't had any in a long time. Who was this girl? I had a
prickling urge to know more. "Where?"
"There's an all night diner down the block."
"Got no money."
"No problem," she said, waving a wallet at me. "Those
bastards can pay."
Seemed fair. I nodded and we walked together to the
roadside diner. We sat on stools and the coffee was brewed,
stewed, and bitter. It bit the back of my throat like bad
memories of other days.
"You want a smoke?" she asked.
Now that was something else I hadn't had in a long time. I
took one from her and she lit it for me. My head reeled.
Fan-fucking-tastic. I was in heaven.
"You been in jail?" she asked.
"Clever kid," I said. "No, but it's a good guess. What's
your name?"
"Betsy, and I guess you expect to fuck me," she said.
Another thing I hadn't done in a very good while. Maybe it
was as good as coffee and tobacco. But she was a kid.
"Howard," I said. "And I don't."
She was wearing old jeans and what looked liked a man's
white long-sleeved business shirt hanging out. Buttons had
been ripped off in the attack on her and the shirt was
flopping forward and gaping open, leaving much of her
breasts exposed to the night air.
She saw me looking and didn't move to close the shirt.
"Sure about that?" she asked. "Only fifty bucks for a
fuck."
Fucking kid was a fucking whore. If I'd known that, I
wouldn't have intervened back there in the alley. "Haven't
got fifty bucks," I said. On me, anyway.
"Or twenty for a blowjob," she suggested.
"Haven't got twenty either."
"Hell, what do you want? You must want something."
Her questions kept getting harder. I couldn't begin to
answer that one. So I drew on the cigarette and sipped the
coffee.
* * *
It goes around and around. The clock. Time, I guess.
Without a second glance or a passing thought I have arrived
at a dangerous age. I turned 34 accidentally. It came to me
on the afternoon of the day it happened. No shit. I'm 34.
Hey. What the hell is this?
I remember being 24. Well, I don't specifically. But I do
remember the feeling of being 24 and invincible. Some years
later all that went away in a rush and I started marking
time. Running on the spot. No, that's untrue. Not even
walking on the spot. I just, sort of, stopped altogether.
I fell into nowhere, where I did nothing and nothing
happened. What do you do when you're doing nothing? I'll
tell you because I've come from there. You eat and you shit
more or less regularly. You bathe and you dress sometimes.
You shop when you have to. You shave occasionally. You
don't go out anywhere to a going-out place. You don't play
music. You don't read books. But you do watch a fantastic
amount of television. An unbelievable amount. It's what you
do when you're not sleeping.
There's an interesting by-product of doing nothing. You
learn a lot. You sit and absorb information, nearly all of
it from television. You watch a lot of game shows when you
watch a lot of television and I was as good as anybody who
ever appeared on them. I know amazing things I could not
have known had I been doing something useful. Can you name
Elizabeth's Taylor's seven husbands in chronological order?
I can. Sneer if you like. I find it dazzling, a piece of
sheer genius.
* * *
Betsy came home with me the night I saved her in the alley.
I didn't invite her. She just tagged along. Talking. She
never stopped talking.
At home I sat down in front of the TV. My TV was always
turned on. Betsy sat down beside me on the sofa and watched
the game show that was on.
"What the fuck is this?" she asked, pointing at the screen.
I shrugged. "Don't know. Just another game show."
"So why are you watching it?"
"It's what I do."
We watched together in silence for a while. Then she
wriggled about uncomfortably. "You can fuck me if you
like," she said. "It won't cost you nothing."
I understood what she was saying. She wanted to stay awhile
and she'd work off the rent on her back. "No need for
that," I said. "Stay as long as you like."
She dropped her hand heavily in my lap. "A blowjob, then,"
she said. "Free."
I picked up her hand and gave it back to her. "Not
necessary."
"You don't like girls, Howard?"
"I like them fine."
"You don't like me? I'm not pretty enough?"
Pretty? I guess she was, now that I looked at her. In a
not-so-cute sort of way, like girls like her can look. The
stud through the bottom lip didn't help. She really was
pretty in there somewhere but she was never going to make
the finals of the Rose of Tralee contest.
"I guess you're pretty," I said.
"Well then. I'm pretty and I'm pretty willing. So why don't
you want to fuck me, Howie?"
"Because you're too young, Betsy."
She laughed mirthlessly. "I was too young when I was 13,"
she said. "Still got fucked though. Howie, I'm 18 and
definitely not too young. I've fucked men twice your age."
"Why?"
"For fifty bucks, that's why. But for you it's on the
house."
"Why?"
"Because it's your house."
Betsy's story unfolded in bits and pieces. She was a part-
time prostitute, working whenever she needed shelter or
cash. She'd been doing it for around 18 months. She'd left
home after damaging her stepfather's skull with an iron,
and I did not ask the reason. Her departure was unlamented.
Nobody looked for her. Nobody wanted her. She was flotsam.
She was trash.
I only have one bed and I let her have it. I rarely slept
in it anyway. Mostly I watched TV and dozed sitting up.
You can get used to things like that.
* * *
She went out when I wasn't paying attention. I thought
she'd gone and how would you know anyway, because she'd
come with nothing but the clothes she was wearing. Turned
out not so. She came back in a taxi with its boot stuffed
with bags of groceries and two battered suitcases. I
watched a quiz show while she clattered about unpacking the
groceries.
"That will keep us going for a while," she said. "Trouble
is, all the money's gone." To emphasise it she threw the
mugger's wallet into the bin. "You got any? I mean, you
have a house and all that. You must have."
"Complicated," I said. "All my bills get paid automatically
out of my bank account. Everything. I don't use much cash."
"Where does it come from?"
"Royalties," I told her. "From a book I wrote."
"What book?"
"It's about warm, loving relationships and how to keep them
warm and loving."
She grinned at me. "What the fuck you know about that,
Howie?"
"Nothing," I said. "But when I wrote it I thought I did."
"Turned out bad?"
"Couldn't have been worse," I said.
* * *
It couldn't have been worse. You read about it but it's
always about somebody else. You open the door, expecting
nothing, and you see a naked man with his dick stuck into a
naked woman. They stop fucking, frozen, and two heads turn
to look at you blankly. Your first reaction is to say sorry
and close the door, and that's what you do. Then it hits
you.
The woman was Cindy, my wife, and the man was Malcolm, my
brother. The two main pillars of my life were shattered
simultaneously, because I did not love two people more in
all the world.
Downstairs, dressed, tense, panicked, they started making
excuses. It didn't work and they switched to guilt,
recriminations, and apologies. That didn't work either.
Nothing was ever going to work. There was no way back from
double betrayal.
I didn't mean to hit him. He was my brother and I loved
him. He was six years my junior and I'd been watching out
for him since I could remember. But he wasn't watching when
I hit him on the back of the head with a brass Buddha. It
was heavy and he was damaged. I dropped the Buddha and
there was blood on it. I walked out of the house and kept
going, walking a long time, and then catching a bus and
then a train.
Eventually I ended up here, hundreds of miles distant. I
started watching TV. The rest you know.
* * *
Betsy looked a bit like Cindy. Same sort of hair. Same sort
of heavyish figure. Same sort of implied invitation about
the way she stood with hips thrust out and arms folded
under her breasts. The books about body language say folded
arms mean stay away. Bullshit to that. Cindy used folded
arms like a tray to rest her breasts on, pushing them at
you. So did Betsy.
She stood in front of me, hips thrust out and arms folded
under her breasts. "You haven't had a woman in a long
time," she said. It was a statement, not a question. "Come
on," she said, picking up my hand and pulling me from the
sofa.
On the TV a fat man with an exaggerated moustache was
groping for the answer to a missing letters puzzle. "Faint
heart never won fair maid," I said.
Betsy looked at me and then at the TV. "You should go on
those shows," she said. "You know everything."
***
My dick had forgotten how to work. Betsy had it in the palm
of her hand where it lolled apathetically.
She looked it and I looked at her and wondered why I wasn't
up to it. Naked on the bed beside me, she had all the right
equipment. Breasts most definite, like little plumped-up
pillows, and a black-haired box casually displayed. Betsy
was only 18 but she was not coy about her body.
Not much of a waist for a girl her age. One of those women
whose torso went from ribs to hips without much
indentation, like a sportswoman. I remembered Cindy was
like that. Strong through the body, a bit stocky. Fucking
Betsy would feel a lot like fucking Cindy. And as soon as
that thought crossed my mind I got hungry and hard.
She rolled on her back and spread her legs hospitably, a
satisfied smirk on her face. I didn't like the way she did
that. It was too easy, too willing, too accommodating. A
woman, especially one aged just 18, should not be like that
with a man she barely knew.
But that was just a passing observation. I was between her
legs and beyond conversation. I needed to fuck her; to fuck
anybody, and I needed to do it immediately.
I fucked Betsy and I cursed Cindy, but silently. I hated
Cindy. Betsy felt like Cindy inside and out, she fucked
like Cindy, and with my eyes half-closed with the effort of
doing something that wasn't coming easily and naturally,
she even looked like Cindy. Enough like her to make me ram
into her with a force driven by bloody-minded vengeance.
Bitch. Slut. Whore. Betrayer. Brotherfucker. Cindy, you
deceived me and cheated me out of a happy life and home and
I will never forget or forgive. Never/push, never/shove,
never/jam it up as far as it can go and spill it all out in
a hot and angry lava-like stream of bottled up frustration
and rage.
* * *
The haze lifted and I was lying sprawled heavily across her
body, my head down and face buried in the humid valley of
her neck and shoulder.
"Jesus, Howie," Betsy said. "What the fuck was that?"
"Uh?" I was dim, stupid, uncertain. What had I done? "Uh,
no good?"
"Put it this way," she said, patting me slowly and
soothingly on the back. "I've been raped three times and I
was never battered as much as that."
"Shit. Betsy, did I hurt you?"
"I'll have a bruise on the shoulder where you punched me
but I've had worse. But I was scared, Howie. I thought for
a moment you were going to kill me."
Me? What the hell was she talking about? I write books
about marriage counselling. Or at least, I did once. I used
to like women once. I used to be interested in their
welfare. I thought relationships were two-way partnerships
and a whole pile of other horse-shit. I used to think that.
I'm still living off the proceeds.
* * *
"We need money," Betsy said.
"Sugar Ray Leonard," I said.
"What?"
"I'm so sorry," said the smooth silver-haired guy on the
TV, "but the correct answer is Sugar Ray Leonard."
"You should go on those shows," Betsy said. "You never get
anything wrong."
I looked up at her. She was wearing an apron and cooking.
"Need money?" I asked. "Why? Just book it up at the grocery
store."
"Fuck that," she said. "I want to go out. I need to have
some fun. Get smashed. Get high. Something. Anything."
"Count me out," I said. "That shit does not interest me."
"Then I'll just go out on my own."
"Whatever. I've got fifty bucks lying around somewhere."
She looked at me stonily. "You've got cancer," she said.
"Inside. It's eating away everything that makes somebody
nice."
"Dame Margot Fonteyn," I said.
"Dame Margot Fonteyn," said the only lady on the quiz
panel.
"Correct," said Silverhair.
Betsy took off the apron and dropped it on the floor. I
think she went straight out.
* * *
I fucked Betsy lots more and Cindy lots less. But the
fucking was still angry and I didn't know why. I was not
angry with Betsy. The trouble was, I was not anything with
Betsy. She was just there and she spread her legs for me
whenever it was necessary or convenient.
I kept thinking I ought to tell Betsy to pick up some
condoms when she went to the grocery store. She never asked
about condoms. Didn't seem to be interested. Oh well, fuck,
it was her body. And me? Who cared? Not me. Not anybody.
I got back into the habit of fucking. Didn't seem to do
much for her, though. She just lay there with hips flat,
legs wide, and breasts plumped and rolling out sideways.
Not very flattering, I thought more than once. Women look
better with their clothes on than off. Just my view, I
suppose, for what it was worth.
"You've never kissed me," she said into the darkness when
we both might have been sleeping but were not.
Hadn't I? Right. I never had.
"Howie," she said tentatively.
"What?"
"Do you even like me?"
"Sure," I said. "Of course."
But did I? Was there anything to like about her? Or was she
just another whore who opened her legs on demand?
At least she had brought me back from a blank place. Back
to what? Who knows. I was now more confused than ever. But
for a short while there was more purpose to life and more
things to do, because Betsy hung about the house like a
puppy and never stopped begging for attention.
She was incredibly stupid. Okay, she was only 18 and she
had a perfect right to be stupid, right? Wrong. This girl
was experienced like most people will never be. Betsy was
so fucking dumb. But she was just a whore, and whores never
learn.
* * *
After a while I stopped noticing when Betsy went out.
Sometimes she was there, sometimes she wasn't. But I
noticed she was back that early morning she came into the
room dripping blood from her face and with a nasty tear
where her lip stud used to be.
"Jesus, what a mess," I said, looking up from the TV.
She burst into tears and bolted for the bathroom. She
didn't look all that much better cleaned up. "You want a
doctor?" I asked. "What the hell happened?"
"A guy punched me out," she said dispiritedly.
"Why?"
"I asked him for the money first. He wanted to pay later."
"Fuck it, Betsy. Are you out whoring again?"
"I need money," she said. "You never give me any. What else
am I going to do? What else can I do?"
"I give you board and lodging."
"Barely," she whispered.
"You never complained before."
"I'm not complaining now, am I?"
"Betsy, you don't have to go out whoring."
"What's the alternative? Staying in with you and watching
game shows on TV? Howie, it's like you're a hundred years
old."
"I don't owe you anything," I reminded her, tired of it
all. "You can do what you like."
She was holding a damp cloth to the gash on her mouth. She
took it away and looked at it to measure the blood flow.
Then she threw it at me angrily and went to bed.
* * *
"I'm leaving," Betsy said.
I looked up from the TV and she was standing beside her two
suitcases. "Are you?" I was surprised. "Why?"
"Because you don't want me to stay."
"Betsy, you can stay as long as you like."
"But you don't want me to stay."
I thought about it. She was becoming a pain in the guts.
"You can do what you want," I said. "Stay. Go. What the
fuck. It's up to you."
"Yeah," she said. "That's exactly what I thought." Tears
were running down her cheeks. "See you, Howie," she said.
"Next time you want to fuck me it'll cost you fifty bucks."
"Don't count on it," I said. "I never use whores."
She slammed the door so hard the sound echoed in my head
long after she'd gone.
* * *
Betsy never came back. I was sort of expecting she would. I
missed her, vaguely. I'd become used to fucking again and
when she left I felt the absence of it. The girl was too
fond of whining for my taste and she was always wanting
something she wouldn't spell out. But I missed the fucking
part.
I got another letter from Cindy addressed to my bank. I
threw it unopened in the bin where the rest had gone.
Cindy was a whore. The difference between Cindy and Betsy
was that Betsy only charged fifty bucks to drop her pants,
and Cindy was a great deal more expensive than that.
Maybe there were nice women around. Somewhere. Just my luck
I'd never found one.
* * *
I took to hunching around the streets again. Hadn't done it
for a while but all of a sudden it seemed like the thing to
do.
One night, just before midnight, I saw a guy humping a girl
against the grimy wall of a forgotten factory. The girl was
Betsy.
I stopped for a moment and watched. He was shoving himself
into her, upwards and inwards, slamming her shoulders
against the red brick wall. He looked over and saw me.
"Fuck off, creep," he snarled.
Betsy looked across as well. "Fifty bucks," she said to me.
I thought for a second she had not recognised me. But then:
"Nothing for nothing no more."
I bent my head and hunched my shoulders and kept walking.
* * *
An ambulance van was parked diagonally across the footpath,
blocking the way. I charted around it and a police officer
warded me away from the scene.
I was passing by, leaving it behind because I saw too much
of that shit on the streets and it was none of my business
anyway, when two paramedics carrying a stretcher bustled up
urgently, heading for the back of the ambulance. I looked
automatically and saw the girl under the blanket was Betsy.
Her face was broken. Smashed. She'd been brutally bashed.
No quick splash of water and a damp rag this time. She was
seriously hurt.
The policeman put out his hand to push me away. But Betsy
reached out from under the blanket and pointed her finger
at me. She was trying to say something. I looked at the
copper and he nodded. I crouched down close to her mushy
and bloodied face.
"You," she said, softly but loud enough so I could hear. I
bent even closer.
"You were the worst of them all," she said.
The paramedics pushed the stretcher into the back of the
vehicle and slammed the doors. The ambulance took off fast
with siren blaring.
"Is she hurt bad?" I asked the copper.
"Real bad," he said. "They don't think she'll make it. Why?
You know her?"
"Not really," I said. "I've seen her around. She was just
another whore out on the streets."
"Yeah," the copper agreed. "And plenty more where she came
from."
* * *
I keep meaning to find out what happened to her. I expect
she died, so I guess there's no point chasing it down.
Anyway, I'm finding it hard to get out of the house. Except
late at night when I walk the streets.
Last night a girl with red hair came up to me and offered
me her body. She was way too young to be doing that but it
was her own affair. I asked her how much.
"One hundred," she said.
"Too expensive," I advised her. "The going rate for whores
is fifty bucks, tops."
ENDS
===========================================================
* The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from)
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* The Stories of DrSpin at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/
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