companionship and solace against the cold. Or the unfathomable depths of the heart
of the man whose face had been burned away, the one that
delivered packages to Blade's place and whose eyes sometimes roamed Dalinda's body
longingly.
As
horrid as Blade's had been, she had never felt lonely there. Of course, there were all the men who came and went and who used her body
as they wished and when they wished. . . never with any warmth or affection. And yet the parties and the sex, even
the bondage and S&M stuff, certainly kept loneliness away.¡[1] ¡But
what had really counted was the companionship with the other girls. Because they were all little more than slaves, they shared a
sort of culture; they were a kind of tiny tribe
or community, separate and apart from the men who
"owned" and oppressed them, a tight™knit tribe of Amazons in
captivity.
Thoughts
of this little tribe were like thoughts of home that other "normal"
women had when traveling on business. They were perversely comforting
thoughts, as Dalinda huddled in the damp, stinking alley ©© comforting, that is, until they circled
back through her mind inevitably to those two flaccid breasts in
their congealing pool of blood.
Her mind recoiled from the picture, fought to force it to go
away. But it wouldn't go away and
she
shivered despite the heat of a July night.¡[1] ¡"Wanna
drink, honey?" ¡[1] ¡Dalinda
jerked her trembling body so hard at the sound of the deep, slurred voice that she fell backwards, her butt landing in a small
puddle of green, slimy water.
She
stared up into a face which was absolutely black: black because it was an African-American face,
blacker still because of a full beard, and blackest of all
because of the aura of light from a street lamp that shown directly behind the large, woolly head
of unkempt hair. Dalinda strained
her eyes to make out the features of the face, but except
for her impression of a beard and lots of hair, she could tell nothing, could not even describe him
to the police if he hurt her just then . . . not that she was likely to go to any police station
for help tonight, no matter what happened.
"Sorry to scare
ya, dahlin," said the great, woolly black head. A black, gnarled fist held out what she suddenly realized was a paper bag
from which extended the neck of a glass bottle.
Just as suddenly Dalinda realized she wanted a drink more than almost .
. . almost anything in the world.
Using
her hand to lift herself awkwardly back up onto her haunches, she reached out and took the bag with its bottle from the black
man's extended right hand. She put
it to her
lips and took a long swig of the sickeningly©sweet
wine. The syrupy liquid sliced
down her throat, dry from fear and from having had nothing
to drink since she had slipped away from
"Hey, hon, leave some for ol' Henry, now. Hear?"¡[1] ¡Dalinda took the bottle from her lips and passed it back to the waiting right hand, which had never moved.¡[1] ¡"Sorry," she said. "I was real thirsty. Thank. Thanks a lot."¡[1] ¡"Ahm sorry ya got yo ass wet, baby." The voice seemed kind, a little bit mocking,
but gentle.
"That's
okay," Dalinda replied, "I'm soaked anyway."¡[1] ¡"Ya'll
got a place to crash tonight, angel?" Now the black man squatted down to her level and brought his big head close to her
face. She could smell his breath,
which was a mixture of stale tobacco, Mad Dog 20/20, and tooth decay. She instinctively pulled back and almost fell backwards into the slimy puddle again,
but stopped her fall with her hands.
"Hey,
babe, don't be afraid. Henry ain't gonna
hurt ya. It's up to ya'll. But ya'll can crash at my place eff ats wha ya want." He
stood again, took a swig from his bottle and waited like someone who was used
to waiting.
Dalinda thought fast, trying to weigh her options, which she knew were
pitifully few. Slowly
she stood up and nodded to the old man.
Without a word, he turned and began walking down the alley. Dalinda followed a few feet behind,
ever ready to turn and
run.
She felt her butt. The
cheap pink shorts had two slimy, wet patches, one on each cheek.
The slimy moisture adhered to her hands and she wiped them as clean as
she could
on the sides of the shorts.
Henry's home proved
to be an impressively large pile of blankets and rags between a pair of overflowing dumpsters. He first went to the far side of one
dumpster and urinated, then returned, and crawled into the pile. Dalinda followed.
As
they lay side by side, Henry took her nearest hand, the left one, and placed it
on his semi-erect penis. He had not bothered to zip up his fly after pissing. The organ was large and throbbed a little as it filled with more
blood at her touch.
"Jes
room rent," he mumbled. What
the hell, she thought. Is this any
worse than what she had done at Blade's a hundred (or was it a thousand) times? No, in fact it wasn't half as bad. Not one tenth as bad.She
shifted onto her left side and grasped the swelling member in both hands. Henry,whom she had judged to be in his fifties or early
sixties now that she could see him a little better, moaned soft and low as Dalinda paid her
"rent" for the night's lodging.‘ |
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