True Submission

by Claire Thompson

  “Oh, Greg,” Ashley said, her voice pleading.

  He cut her off. “No. I don’t want to hear a fucking word. You aren’t going to sabotage my business, bitch. You do what you’re told. End of story. Now go put on that stupid school uniform he likes and make like the nicey-nicey little innocent you and I both know you are not.” With a wave of his hand, he dismissed her, turning back toward his computer screen.

  Ashley sat on the edge of her bed, staring unseeing out her window. Stockton. That bastard Alvin Stockton. For a long time Ashley didn’t think of anything at all. She just stared out at the empty street, unaware that a sigh escaped her lips.

  Andrew’s face drifted through her mind. It was funny, she thought, that until she had started reading her books and until she had met Andrew, she’d never thought much about what she did for a living.

  Sure, she knew she was a prostitute and she knew she didn’t count for much. But it hadn’t mattered that much to her. She wasn’t happy, but then she had never been happy. No one had ever promised her that life was good and she had never considered it so. It was something to be gotten through, to survive, and on many levels, she was doing better than she had a right to expect.

  Enter Andrew—that bright handsome man who treated her with respect and kindness. And even before she had met him, there were her beloved novels. The stories about empowered, brave women had made her think, for the first time in her life, that there might be something else out there. This dawning realization coupled with his overtly friendly conversation had served to highlight just how miserable her crummy life really was. Suddenly she felt she could no longer tolerate her situation.

  The possibility of a different kind of life was a like a tiny light seeping through a grimy window in her heart. Was she planning on being Greg’s mattress for the rest of her life? How long could a hooker work anyway before she was no longer considered desirable? What would happen to her then? She harbored no illusions that Greg would keep her around out of charity. She knew the minute she was no longer useful to him, she’d be out on her ear with nothing to show for it but some crumpled bills stashed in her tampon box.

  Didn’t she have a right to a different kind of life? Didn’t she have a right to her own husband and family, to a career? So she was a high school dropout—she could get a GED, she could learn some skills. These thoughts, perhaps obvious to a different person, were novel to Ashley, coming from somewhere inside of her that had never been awakened until now.

  The thought of never seeing Andrew again juxtaposed with the dreadful prospect of submitting to Stockton’s outrages made Ashley’s options stand out clearly in her mind.

  She had to get out.

  If only she could find the courage to do it, and some way to make it happen.

  She looked at the clock. She’d better get ready for tonight. For the first time in her life, she had resolve but she had no idea what to do about it. If only she had someone to confide in, someone who could help her make her plans.

  Andrew.

  If only she dared to tell him what she really was. But if she told him, she’d lose him. A catch-22, she thought, smiling grimly to herself.

  She knew she couldn’t get out of this assignment tonight. And she knew she’d better toe the line or pay the consequences. Well, she could do this. What were two hours in the scheme of things? Now that she had decided she had to leave, the rest was just details, wasn’t it? Plenty of women in much worse situations had pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and made their breaks. She could do it too.

  As she brushed her hair back into the schoolgirl ponytail, Ashley stared at herself in the mirror. What was that she saw in her expression? Why, it looked almost, what was the word…bold. Yes, she looked bold and brave, full of resolve. She whispered, “You can do it, Princess Ashley of Alvedon!” as she grinned at her reflection.

  Her resolve wavered as she entered the elevator of Stockton’s hotel, pushing the button for his floor. It was easy to feel strong and empowered in your own bathroom, but heading up to be belittled and used by an ugly old man was another thing altogether.

  “Yeah,” came his voice, a wavery tenor. She pushed open the door, which had been left slightly ajar. “Put on the chain,” he called out, “and let me see you.”

  Taking a deep breath, Ashley obeyed. Two hours. She could endure anything for two hours. She stood submissively in front of the old man, who sat on the end of his bed dressed only in his baggy boxers. His skin was gray and hung loose from his bones.

  He threw some crumpled bills at her feet, as Greg insisted on payment before services were rendered and even Stockton complied. Ashley bent to retrieve the money, which she quickly slipped into her purse. “That’s right. Scramble for the cash, filth. Hope you’re feeling better since you gave me that last cock-and-bull story. Don’t think I don’t know you were full of shit, even though your pimp tried to cover for you. Now you owe me, for having stood me up last time.”

  Ashley didn’t respond, but stood looking at the floor, letting her mind drift to the latest novel she was reading. “Have you been a bad girl this week, Ashley?” Stockton demanded, his voice suddenly stern and deeper in timbre.

  “Yes, sir,” Ashley answered mechanically. She hated his stupid fantasy of being the disciplining headmaster with her in the role of the misbehaving coed. He rambled on for some minutes about her various supposed transgressions, his cock held loosely in his hand. “Lift up your skirt and drop your panties, you bad girl. Show me that big, nasty ass of yours.”

  Ashley obeyed, turning her back to the man and sticking her bared bottom at him. Her face was burning and she felt hatred seeping up like a corroding acid in her blood. Stockton laughed a dry little chuckle and then began to outline a litany of punishments that would have to be inflicted upon her to “teach her a lesson”.

  “I wonder if I upped the ante,” Stockton said, musing aloud, “then your pimp might let me smack that rump of yours. A good ass-bruising spanking. His rule of no hitting is stupid, but I bet the rule could be broken for more dough. Everyone has their price. Would you like that, cunt? To get a good, old-fashioned spanking from me?”

  Ashley didn’t answer and suddenly he was next to her, pulling her head back by her ponytail. “I asked you a question, bitch,” he hissed in her ear. “Answer it.”

  “No, sir,” she managed, closing her eyes.

  “Good. That would make it even more fun,” he said, letting her go. “You’re not supposed to like it.” Sitting back on the bed, he said, “Get over here and make me hard.” Again, he pulled his penis from the opening of his boxers, massaging it with his hand. Dutifully Ashley came over and knelt in front of the man, her panties still at her knees.

  Holding her breath, she licked and sucked at his short but thick cock until it was fully erect. The sooner he was hard, the sooner he would use her and be done with it. Maybe this would be her last john.

  If only she could come up with a plan. She stroked his balls while she suckled him until he grunted and said, “Get the rubber, I want to fuck you now.”

  Obediently she took the little plastic packet and opened it, sliding the lubricated condom over his member before lying back on the floor, her plaid skirt hiked to her waist. He liked to take her on the floor. “Where you belong, dirtbag. On the floor like the filth you are.”

  He pulled open her peter-pan collared blouse and pulled her bra up roughly above her breasts before lowering himself onto her. Grunting a little, he entered her, his flabby body covering hers. Ashley turned her head away and closed her eyes. She didn’t try to move or respond as she did with most of her johns. Stockton didn’t care if she derived pleasure, and in fact seemed to enjoy the fact that she did not.

  He rutted into her for several minutes. The lubrication of the condom was rubbing off and Ashley began to feel the painful friction in her dry pussy. Let this be over with soon, she thought. She tried to tune out his constant invective as he talked himself to orgasm by hurling insults and degradat
ions at her.

  After an interminable amount of time, he finally jerked spasmodically against her, crying out, “You filthy cunt,” as he came into the shielding condom. Slowly he eased himself out of her and stood above her. Ashley didn’t try to rise, knowing he liked to look down on her once he’d “defiled” her.

  What happened next wasn’t anticipated and her reaction certainly wasn’t planned.

  Stockton slipped the come-filled rubber from his now flaccid dick and dropped it on Ashley’s bared stomach. This was disgusting enough, but then he stood over her, lightly holding his penis between thumb and forefinger, his legs spread on either side of her in an “at-ease” position.

  As his urine began to splash down on her, something snapped in Ashley’s brain. All the abuse heaped on her by her father, her brothers, the men in the streets and crack houses, Greg and every man who had ever used her for money—it all suddenly gelled and shrank down into this one intolerable moment, and Ashley felt a feeling that was new to her—rage.

  Sitting up she screamed, “No!” as her arm swung out, knocking the old man over as it caught him around the legs. He fell in a tumble, urine still dribbling from his limp cock as he yelped in surprise and pain.

  “Why, you fucking bitch! You fucking little whore!” He screamed, spittle hurling from his lips as he struggled to right himself. “Wait ‘til I get my hands on you. You’re gonna regret the day you were born.”

  Ashley wasn’t waiting to see what he had in mind. She wasn’t thinking at all, having shifted into some kind of survival action mode. She herself was stunned at what had happened. It wasn’t the first time she’d been subjected to a “golden shower” but she’d always had time to mentally prepare before this. It had always been in the bathtub and she had been naked and able to shower immediately afterward.

  His intention to humiliate and debase her had backfired. The blood thumped through her head like a battle march. At that precise moment, she didn’t care what was going to happen. Damn the repercussions. Surely, Greg would agree that Stockton had gone too far this time. There was only so much she could be expected to endure and he had definitely crossed the line.

  Angrily wiping his nasty piss from her belly with the bedspread. Drops had splattered on her clothing as well as she shuddered with disgust. Quickly Ashley pulled up her panties and tried to straighten her disheveled clothing, all the while dodging the enraged, naked little man. The situation would have been almost comical if it hadn’t been so tragically sad and repulsive.

  Grabbing her purse, Ashley leapt to the door, released the chain and pulled it open. She was dashing down the hall toward the stairs before Stockton had even pulled his pants on. Her heart was pounding and adrenaline pumped through her body, making her feel like an Olympian athlete. She sprinted down the steps and ran the whole ten blocks home. Greg would be leaving soon to come pick her up but she’d beat him to it.

  She burst into the front door and stopped suddenly. She was disheveled—her blouse buttoned askew, her ponytail half out of its elastic. She was breathing hard and stood still a moment, trying to catch her breath.

  He would understand, surely he would. No one could be expected to endure that loathsome little man’s abuse. Even Greg would have to agree what he had done was outrageous and unacceptable.

  Greg turned slowly toward her as Ashley stood in the hallway, now suddenly uncertain. His countenance was dark, his eyes glittering with rage. Shit. Stockton must have reached him before she did. If he’d just let her explain.

  “Greg, if you’ll just let me explain,” she began, but Greg was up, moving quickly toward her. She tried to tell him, to explain, to beg, but her words came out as high-pitched gibberish as he swung the dreaded rubber hose toward her, hitting her sharply in the face.

  “I warned you, you idiot.” he screamed as she crumpled to the ground, trying to shield herself. “You stupid, stupid bitch. You’ve ruined my reputation. Stockton’s promised to get the word out that I can’t deliver the goods. You stupid cunt.” Again and again he hit her, the hose swooping in great arcs through the air, covering every part of her body until she was sobbing and rolling in a desperate effort to get away from him.

  She tasted salty blood in her mouth and tried to swallow. Pain blazed through her body and life seemed to recede down to this one moment. If she could just stay still and small, perhaps it would stop.

  Stay still. Stay quiet. Play dead.

  At last, he dropped the hose. Dimly she could hear his hoarse breathing as he stood over her. Stay still, stay quiet, play dead—the words whispered through her brain, all other thought obliterated in terror. Savagely he kicked her side, drawing a last grunt of pain. Mercifully, she heard the front door slam just before she passed out.

  ~*~

  She must have drifted in and out of consciousness because at one point Andrew was kneeling next to her. He gently washed her face with a cool washcloth. Soft—so soft—so warm. As she reached out to touch him his image receded.

  Pain. As she came to, it suffused her body—all her limbs ached and her side was especially tender where his boot had found its mark. Slowly she opened her eyes. She squinted in the light from the hall fixture. The house was silent. For several moments she stayed still, her eyes closed, her ears straining for any sound that might give him away.

  Finally satisfied she was alone on the cold tile floor, she opened her eyes again and tried to move. She was already so stiff and bruised she could barely uncurl herself from the fetal position she had assumed to try and protect herself.

  One eye was swollen shut and her jaw was tender to the touch. Slowly she opened her mouth, tentatively testing her jaw. No, it wasn’t broken. But she was pretty sure a couple of ribs were. When he’d delivered that last savage kick, she had definitely felt something snap.

  She lay still awhile longer, knowing she needed to get up, but not sure what to do. Thank goodness, he had left the house. Think, Ashley, think. She needed a plan. Obviously she had to get out now, and sooner than even she had anticipated. There was no way Greg was going to get over this, she was pretty certain. Even if he did continue to “employ” her, she was sure he’d make her life a living hell. More of one than it already was, that is.

  But even beyond the fear of his continued retaliation, there was a new and more empowering drive to go. She would not tolerate this treatment for another second. Living here as a virtual prisoner in this horrid man’s house was no longer an option. They’d crossed the line now. The pain of her situation had finally overbalanced the fear of leaving. If she stayed, she felt certain she’d never get out again. The beatings would escalate until he finally killed her.

  But where to go?

  Well, she’d lived on the streets before. At least now, she knew better than to give in to the false promise of crack cocaine. She would stay clean and she would get out! Now, before he got back.

  She was reasonably sure he’d gone to Sweeney’s, his favorite bar a few blocks away. Knowing him, Greg would get good and drunk before he came back to beat on her some more. Well, not this time. This time he wouldn’t find her. No, sir. Ashley Cole was no longer anyone’s whore, anyone’s doormat.

  Limping to the bathroom, she reached under the sink and pulled out her tampon box. She took the whole box, knowing there was close to four thousand dollars in there. Grabbing her makeup bag, she took it with her as well.

  Hurrying to Greg’s bedroom she found the duffel bag he kept in the back of his closet. She noticed he’d left his cell phone on his bureau and she pocketed that too. Moving as fast as she could, ignoring the ache of bruises and welts already starting to rise, she rushed to her bedroom and dumped as much of her clothing into the duffel as it would hold.

  She looked longingly at her bed for a moment, thinking of the precious books hidden beneath. Well, she could get new ones. She had to travel light and she had to get moving. “Good riddance to this fucking place and my fucking life.” she whispered, still not daring shout, even though she was al
one. On a sudden impulse she knelt, reaching under the bed for the one book she would take—Warrior Princess of Alvadon—the novel that had started it all. She hugged it to her for a moment before stuffing it in the duffel, as if she were hugging Princess Aleda herself. Courage, dearheart—Ashley could almost hear the heroine whispering to her.

  Ashley dragged the duffel behind her as she hurried to the door. Once outside she squinted with her one good eye, looking in both directions, making sure that bastard Greg was nowhere in sight. Using his phone, she called directory assistance as she half-walked, half-ran toward the center of town.

  Ring, ring, she silently willed while she waited for the connection to go through.

  “Jake’s Taxi Service.”

  “Hi, please send me a taxi to the drugstore on Main and Orchard? Yes, I’ll be waiting out front.” Next, she dialed directory assistance again, this time getting connected to the women’s shelter on the far side of town.

  “This bird,” she said aloud, “has flown.”

  Chapter 4

  They were so nice to her at the shelter. She was moved after the first night to a safe house, a dingy little apartment building not far from where Ashley used to hang in her street days. Her ribs were still taped but the bruises were fading and the swelling on her face had gone down. It had been a week and Ashley was starting to feel almost human again.

  After that first night—how had she found the courage to run, she marveled over and over again—she had started to tremble and couldn’t stop without the aid of a sedative the shelter doctor had provided. Moving to the safe house had helped, as they assured her that no one under any circumstances would be told where she was without her express permission.