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Message-ID: <48359asstr$1088763005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: RuthiesStories@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} (Betsy) Finding Betsy {EZ Writer}
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Date: Fri,  2 Jul 2004 06:10:05 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Finding Betsy.txt" begin>

Finding Betsy By EZ Writer

   "Are you all right?" I asked, extending a hand to help her.

   "Yeah.  Thanks," she said, looking around for the street toughs I drove
off.

   She brushed off her clothes.  They looked unwashed and ragged around the
edges, as did she.

   "You should be home at this hour," I said disapprovingly.

   Her pretty, full-lipped face was drawn and tight.

   "I don't have a home."

   "Why don't I buy you some coffee?" I offered.

   "Look, mister.  Thanks for helping me, but...  tell you what.  I need
money.  I'll give you a blowjob for twenty dollars."

   "How old are you?" I asked.

   "Old enough to give a damn good blowjob.  I'm eighteen, if you must
know."

   "There's a coffee kiosk a few blocks from here.  Let's have coffee and
maybe I'll take you up on your offer," I said.

   I started walking at a slow pace.  In a moment, she was beside me.

   "What's your name?" I asked.

   "Pearl.  Pearl Wisdom."

   "Mine's Howard Bloom."

   A horn-honk blocks away reverberated through the concrete canyons.  The
click of our heels echoed in the ensuing silence.

   "So, Pearl, you're a hooker?"

   "I prefer the word whore.  It's more honest."

   "Been whoring long?"

   "Long enough."

   I heard a noise behind us.  The three toughs were following at a safe
distance.  I hadn't frightened them.  I was six feet tall, but thin and
angular.  They could easily take me.  It was my gun, bought and registered,
that kept those rats at bay.  I got it after some thugs hospitalized me one
sleepless night when I walked the streets.  These streets are mean.

   She scurried next to me and took my hand, squeezing it tightly.  We
walked faster and the thugs kept pace.  None too soon, we turned the
corner. The coffee kiosk was half a block away, near the entrance to a
hotel.  The bright lights were welcome.  When I looked back, her attackers
were gone.

   We sat on the bus bench to eat the coffee and doughnuts I purchased. 
She tried to eat slowly, but in minutes, they were gone.

   "What do you charge for a fuck?" I asked.

   She hesitated.  I'd guessed she wasn't a real whore.  I'd spent some
time with those.  She didn't have the toughness, the hard edge a
professional whore quickly acquires.

   "A hundred."

   "Too much.  I can get laid for $50.  The blowjob price is a little high,
too.  Fifteen dollars is the street rate."

   "Well," she said defensively, "I'm better than most."

   "It's a commodity business, Pearl."

   Something about Pearl reminded me of Cindy, my live-in lover for three
years.  She'd been voluptuous before she decided to emulate Ally McBeal. 
Her compulsion to be thin exacerbated a shrewish nature and she harped
endlessly.  I was ready to end our relationship when I came home
unexpectedly one day to find another man in my bed with her.  I threw out
the skinny slut.

   I'd always been embarrassed by my thinness.  "Bony," my mother'd said.
When Cindy changed, she made nasty comments about my body, knowing they'd
cut like a knife.  She saved her most acerbic comments for my cock.  "It's
as skinny as the rest of you," she'd sneered.

   Since I'd thrown out Cindy, I'd thought about a new woman in my life. 
Why God cursed me with a strong sex drive and an appearance that turned
women off, I'll never know.  Some ironic heavenly joke, I guess.

   "Pearl, are you interested in making a deal?"

   "What do you have in mind?"

   "You don't have any place to live.  I've got a brownstone with two
bedrooms.  You're a whore.  I'm a guy that likes sex."

   "Go on.  I'm listening."

   "I'll give you room and board if you cook and clean.  I'll pay for the
sex, but I want a reduced rate."

   "How much?"

   "Ten dollars for a blowjob.  Twenty-five for a straight fuck."

   If I'd guessed correctly, she was a street waif.  A home and food were
probably the best offer she'd had.

   "I don't know," she said.  "How long are we going to do this?"

   "A day or ten years.  Who knows?  You can leave any time or I can throw
you out any time.  One thing you should know."

   "What?" she asked.

   I slipped the snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38 out of my pocket, opened the
cylinder and clicked it closed.  Her eyes narrowed.

   "If you steal anything from me, I'll hunt you down."

   "I'm a whore, not a thief," she snapped.

   A cab sped past and screeched to a halt at the hotel.  Two drunks
staggered out.  A cheap looking woman appeared out of the darkness to
proposition them.  She looked old and well used.

   Pearl watched the woman disappear into the darkness after the men
rejected her.  She shivered.  She didn't look at me when she said, "I'd
like to try it for a few days."

   "One more question.  What's your real name?"

   She hesitated, evaluating whether to trust me.

   "Betsy Powell," she said softly.

   I didn't want to chance the thugs.  We got a cab in front of the hotel
and, in minutes, were at my home.

   I lived in an old, four-story brownstone on the east side.  I occupied
the first and second floors and the basement.  I rented out the top two
floors to a gay couple who were quiet and paid the rent on time.

   I opened the door, deactivated the alarm, and let Betsy slip past me
before I secured the exterior.  She slowly turned in the middle of the
room.

   "This is nice," she said.

   "Thanks.  Follow me."

   I led her to the kitchen and said, "Let me see your driver's license."

   "I don't have one."

   "ID Card?"

   "I don't have any identification."

   Ironic, isn't it?  I'd thought of capturing a girl.  New York was full
of runaways, precious daughters abandoned to the street.  I'd schemed about
chaining one in the basement to use when I wanted.  Now one had dropped
into my lap.  But real life isn't fantasy.  In my fantasy, the girl stayed
because she wanted me.

   I started unbuttoning my shirt.

   "All right, Betsy.  House rules.  This place has an alarm system.  I
always leave it on.  You can't go out without deactivating it." She nodded
as she watched me undress.

   "Second rule.  You'll do what you're told when you're told.  You'll be
responsible for cleaning and cooking.  Can you cook?"

   "Pretty well," she said.

   "Glad to hear it," I replied.  I removed my shirt and laid it across the
counter.

   "Why don't you start undressing?"

   She reddened and looked away.  With leaden hands, she reached for the
first button of her blouse.  Strange behavior for a street whore.

   "Third rule.  If you have other customers, you can't bring them here and
you can't tell them where you live."

   "How often do you want sex?" she asked pensively.

   "Once or twice a day."

   She shrugged.  "Maybe I won't need other customers."

   She turned her back to remove her tattered blouse and unfasten her bra.
When she turned around, she hid her breasts with her arms.

   "You have beautiful breasts," I said, and they were-massive, fleshy, in
a light pink with large dusky rose areola and prominent nipples.

   "They're a curse," she muttered under her breath.

   When I started undoing my trousers, she started on her skirt.  Like two
children playing a stripping game, we discarded them at the same time.

   Betsy was plump.  Not fat.  In another age, she'd have been called
voluptuous and painters would've spent hours reproducing her body on
canvas. Her thighs and her ass, like her breasts, were soft and inviting.
Her body language said she didn't like her body.  I sensed she'd suffered
disparaging remarks, but she'd never hear them from me.  I liked voluptuous
women.

   I yanked down my shorts and quickly sat down.  Betsy was watching me,
smiling gently.

   "You're embarrassed, too, aren't you?" she asked softly.

   Why lie?  "Yes," I whispered.

   Her breasts jiggled as she knelt between my legs and wrapped her hand
around my cock.

   "Have you got ten dollars?" she teased.

   "Yes," I said.

   She licked my cock head before burying it between pressured lips.  She
swallowed and her throat massaged the head.  I groaned as she pulled him
slowly out.

   "See.  Thin goes places thick can't," she said.

   She hadn't lied about her oral skills.  It was the best blowjob I'd ever
had.  I only wish she'd kept her eyes open.  When she sat back after
swallowing my cum, she looked embarrassed.

   "Fabulous," I mumbled.  "Where did you learn that?"

   "I had to learn," she said flatly.  She looked away and stood.  "May I
take a bath?"

   "Certainly.  There's a tub in my bathroom, but the second bedroom's in
the basement.  There's only a shower down there."

   "A shower's fine."

   I showed her the room in the basement, gave her a bathrobe, and left her
alone.  Soon I heard her in the kitchen.

   "Hungry?" I asked.

   Surprised, she squeaked and spun to face me, clutching the robe around
her.  She looked younger with the makeup and grime flushed away.  I
scrambled eggs and made toast, which she devoured.  She was so sleepy I
didn't have the heart to take her then.  I guided her downstairs and tucked
her into bed.

   She was asleep when I left in the morning.  I wrote a list of
instructions for her.  When I returned at one, she was watching The Cooking
Channel.  The list had been completed.

   "Hi," she said.

   "Hi," I replied.  "I'm horny.  Follow me."

   She padded behind me to my bedroom on the second floor.  Sexless and
perfunctory, she dropped the robe and lay down.

   "I don't have birth control," she said.

   "Good Lord, why not?"

   "I was on the pill, but I ran out."

   "Shit, and I wanted a fuck."

   "Want me to go buy some condoms?"

   "No.  Use your mouth."

   She showed no emotion as she again gave me magnificent oral sex.

   Fortunately, I own my own business and can take off when I wish.  That
afternoon, I bought condoms, took her to the clinic for a birth control
pill prescription, and had it filled.

   "Where to now?" she asked as she trotted beside me.

   "Macy's for some new clothes for you," I answered.

   "Am I supposed to pay for them?" she asked suspiciously.

   "No.  Consider them a bonus."

   At Macy's, I first bought what I wanted her to wear at home, garter
belts with stockings, sheer underwear, and sexy lingerie.  I particularly
liked the French teddy in shocking pink.  I also purchased three dresses
she selected to wear out of the house and odds and ends, including shoes
and a few pieces of costume jewelry.

   She was giddy with happiness.  I saw a different side to her there.  A
softer side, a younger side.  She was no more than a girl.  A girl
frightened and alone on the streets on New York.  Her defenses were down.

   Maybe mine were, too.  I felt protective of her.  I wanted to bring the
light of happiness to her eyes.  I wanted her to...  Shit!  That's stupid
of me.  That's the way I felt about Cindy, too.

   We were back home standing in the hall.  She was laden with packages. 
Her face was soft, her eyes gentle, when she said, "Thank you, Mr.  Bloom."

   For an instant, I hoped, but...  "Come to my bedroom when you've put
those things away," I said.

   I hate condoms, maybe because I use them every time I fuck.  One
distinct advantage of having a relationship with only one person is knowing
you're both free from disease.  When Cindy started fucking around, condoms
became a necessity.  With whores, they were more so.  We'd had Betsy tested
this morning, but the results wouldn't be back for three days.

   She was on her back watching me as I unwrapped the condom.

   "What's wrong?" I asked.

   "Nothing," she said very softly.

   "Yes, there is.  I can read it in your face." My voice was strident.

   "Nothing's wrong," she replied and looked away.

   I stopped.  One thing was certain.  She wasn't a whore.  They were
disinterested, rudely bored as you prepared to use their body.  Betsy
looked apprehensive.  Was I that ugly?

   "Do you have a problem with me?" I asked with tight-throated
defensiveness.

   "No, Mr.  Bloom," she replied.

   "Then what the hell's wrong?  I'm paying you fairly for this and I
expect a good fuck."

   "Why are you angry with me?" she asked.  Her hands were folded
defensively over her breasts.  Tears welled and her lip quivered.

   "I'm not interested anymore," I said venomously.  "Get out of my room!"

   Clutching the robe over her breasts, she ran from the room.

   After that time, our interaction was limited.  She prepared the meals
and it was obvious she was working hard to do her best.  The house was
spotless.  But conversation was perfunctory and meaningless.

   Day followed night and the routine didn't vary.  We'd sit at the dining
table not looking at each other except for furtive glances and not speaking
except for clipped exchanges.  We didn't touch except for twice daily oral
servicing.

   On the eighth day, only one place was set at the table.  She served my
food and sat in what had become her chair.

   "You're not eating?" I asked.

   "No, Mr.  Bloom.  I'd like to leave tonight...  if you'll let me."

   "Let you?"

   "I'm a prisoner here." Her voice quivered.  Tears slipped down her
cheeks.

   "No, you're not.  You can leave anytime."

   "You set the alarm.  I can't leave."

   My mouth dropped open.  Consciously, I hadn't thought of that.

   "I didn't mean to trap you," I replied, but I wondered if subconsciously
I had.

   "You didn't?" she asked hopefully.

   "No, I didn't.  If you want to leave, you can.  I owe you one hundred
and fifty dollars."

   "I don't want your money, Mr.  Bloom."

   "Why not?  You've earned it."

   She wrapped her arms around herself and tears trickled down her face.

   "Where will you go?" I asked.

   "I don't know."

   "Why don't you go home?"

   "I told you.  I don't have a home."

   "But you must have lived somewhere before you were on the street. 
Where's that?"

   "That's his home."

   Suddenly, her situation was clear to me.

   "Your father?"

   "Stepfather."

   "That's why you had to learn to give blowjobs.  To keep from being
raped."

   "It didn't work," she sobbed.

   I wanted to comfort her, but she jerked away.  Forcibly, I held her for
the brief moment until she collapsed against me in abject sorrow.  We held
onto each for dear life.  I cried with her.  Two wounded birds finding
solace in each other.

   I awakened in the morning with her curled next to me on my bed.  We were
both dressed under the comforter I'd pulled over us.

   I didn't work that day or the next.  I spent those precious hours
cocooned with her.  We talked.  We touched.  We cried.  We learned each
other as we opened our hearts and minds to the risks of being hurt and the
ecstacy of not being.

   The following morning when I left, she waved goodbye to me at the door.
There was a spring in my step and I whistled as I wove my way through the
sidewalk crowds.

   Each day was better than the one before.  Meals were animated joys of
sharing.  Evenings afterwards were bondings of mind and heart.  We slept
together every night, but we didn't have sex, not even oral sex.

   In the time since we razed the walls of our emotional prisons with a
torrent of tears, I'd fallen in love with her.

   She met me at the door one afternoon wearing one of the simple dresses
from Macy's.  Her eyes were bright and shining.  She wore no makeup.  Her
arms were around my waist, her breasts against my chest, as she stood on
tiptoes to kiss me.  Someone walking by whistled at us.

   "I want you," I said, unable to contain it any longer.

   "I want you, too," she murmured.

   On opposite sides of my bed, we watched each other undress.  She lay
down beside me.

   This is the way it should be, I thought.  I can see the love in her
face, the light in her eyes.  She wants me.  Me!

   "Make love to me, Howie," she whispered.


   edited by Ruthie 

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