said. “In the first place, you should know I’m not here because I want to be. I’m here because I’m a prisoner of Chuck Traynor who just happens to be insane.”
I stopped there, allowed that to settle in, and watched for his reaction. He wasn’t pleased. I could tell that this was not the kind of thing he was paying to hear.
“Go on,” he said.
As the story poured out of me, his mood went from serious to sad to deeply concerned.
“Maybe I could help you,” he said.
“How could you help me?”
“I have a little cabin up in the woods,” he said. “You could go up there and hide out for a while.”
“Where in the woods? What woods?”
“It’s in southern Georgia,” he said. “Only about seven hours away. There’s just one thing. I wouldn’t want Chuck to know that I was connected with this at all. I’ll tell you the truth, he scares me. But you could stay up there in the cabin and later I’d join you.”
“I know how this might work.” My mind was going a mile a minute now. “You could arrange to meet me in a motel with a back way out. You’d just stay in your room, and I’d skip out the back. When Chuck came looking for me, you’d just tell him I never showed up. If you were still there in the room, he wouldn’t think that you were involved.”
“Yes, you could live in my cabin then,” Jason was saying. “And then when I joined you, we could become real lovers. We could be together all the time and really be in love.”
The way he was going on, my mind started to play tricks on me: Perhaps I was getting into something far worse? What kind of man pays $45.00 to rent a woman anyhow? What kind of man prefers make-believe love over real love? Then I thought about his being a mortician—maybe he was one of those guys who liked dead bodies; Chuck had told me about them. Maybe he was just another super-freak who wanted to get me up in the woods of Georgia so that he could kill me.
The bottom line: I chickened out.
“Jason, let’s think about this a little while,” I said.
When I do think about it how, when I go back to moments like that, I start to jam—my head gets all jammed up. Why didn’t I take my chances with Jason? Or with Melody? How could it possibly have been any worse than what happened to me? Was I so terrified that everything in life scared me?
Life with Chuck never improved. I learned to settle for the smallest imaginable triumphs, the absence of pain or the momentary lessening of terror.
In time, I learned to satisfy men like Chuck—men who got their kicks from pain. I learned how to do this without suffering too much pain myself. Chuck had taught me how to relax my throat muscles so that I wouldn’t gag during oral sex. I set about teaching all of my muscles to relax. It got so that I could relax any set of muscles at will.
So when Chuck started putting his fist inside of me, I was able to relax and cut back on the pain. And when he finally found a two-headed dildo of his very own—I was surprised to learn that it actually existed—I learned how to relax so that even that wouldn’t hurt too much.
But I wouldn’t tell Chuck that. On the contrary, I would scream for mercy, and he would become hard and ejaculate almost instantly; then he would leave me alone for a while. I was becoming quite a little actress. I learned that it was never enough to fake pain, you had to fake pleasure at the same time: “Oh, Chuck, that hurts . . . that hurts too much . . . but please don’t stop.” That kind of nonsense.
In a strange way, even the sword-swallowing, deep-throat techniques that Chuck had taught me could work to my advantage. There were times when Chuck would make me work parties with maybe fifteen men and two chicks. This is still difficult for me to talk about, and I apologize in advance for it, but I don’t know a more polite way to put it: I found it easier to suck a man’s cock than to let him put his thing inside of me. I was a virgin until I was
I stopped there, allowed that to settle in, and watched for his reaction. He wasn’t pleased. I could tell that this was not the kind of thing he was paying to hear.
“Go on,” he said.
As the story poured out of me, his mood went from serious to sad to deeply concerned.
“Maybe I could help you,” he said.
“How could you help me?”
“I have a little cabin up in the woods,” he said. “You could go up there and hide out for a while.”
“Where in the woods? What woods?”
“It’s in southern Georgia,” he said. “Only about seven hours away. There’s just one thing. I wouldn’t want Chuck to know that I was connected with this at all. I’ll tell you the truth, he scares me. But you could stay up there in the cabin and later I’d join you.”
“I know how this might work.” My mind was going a mile a minute now. “You could arrange to meet me in a motel with a back way out. You’d just stay in your room, and I’d skip out the back. When Chuck came looking for me, you’d just tell him I never showed up. If you were still there in the room, he wouldn’t think that you were involved.”
“Yes, you could live in my cabin then,” Jason was saying. “And then when I joined you, we could become real lovers. We could be together all the time and really be in love.”
The way he was going on, my mind started to play tricks on me: Perhaps I was getting into something far worse? What kind of man pays $45.00 to rent a woman anyhow? What kind of man prefers make-believe love over real love? Then I thought about his being a mortician—maybe he was one of those guys who liked dead bodies; Chuck had told me about them. Maybe he was just another super-freak who wanted to get me up in the woods of Georgia so that he could kill me.
The bottom line: I chickened out.
“Jason, let’s think about this a little while,” I said.
When I do think about it how, when I go back to moments like that, I start to jam—my head gets all jammed up. Why didn’t I take my chances with Jason? Or with Melody? How could it possibly have been any worse than what happened to me? Was I so terrified that everything in life scared me?
Life with Chuck never improved. I learned to settle for the smallest imaginable triumphs, the absence of pain or the momentary lessening of terror.
In time, I learned to satisfy men like Chuck—men who got their kicks from pain. I learned how to do this without suffering too much pain myself. Chuck had taught me how to relax my throat muscles so that I wouldn’t gag during oral sex. I set about teaching all of my muscles to relax. It got so that I could relax any set of muscles at will.
So when Chuck started putting his fist inside of me, I was able to relax and cut back on the pain. And when he finally found a two-headed dildo of his very own—I was surprised to learn that it actually existed—I learned how to relax so that even that wouldn’t hurt too much.
But I wouldn’t tell Chuck that. On the contrary, I would scream for mercy, and he would become hard and ejaculate almost instantly; then he would leave me alone for a while. I was becoming quite a little actress. I learned that it was never enough to fake pain, you had to fake pleasure at the same time: “Oh, Chuck, that hurts . . . that hurts too much . . . but please don’t stop.” That kind of nonsense.
In a strange way, even the sword-swallowing, deep-throat techniques that Chuck had taught me could work to my advantage. There were times when Chuck would make me work parties with maybe fifteen men and two chicks. This is still difficult for me to talk about, and I apologize in advance for it, but I don’t know a more polite way to put it: I found it easier to suck a man’s cock than to let him put his thing inside of me. I was a virgin until I was
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