Tainted Rose

by Abby Weeks

  Rose had a very bad feeling about it but there was nothing to be done. Serge was her boss and her job was to take that customer into the back and dance for him.

  She got up and went over to the man.

  “Come on, honey,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  He didn’t answer her. He was a gentle man.

  She took him by the hand and led him to the back room. It was locked, as usual. She had no idea why Murdoch insisted on keeping that room locked, there was nothing in there apart from a worn out old speaker, a painted-red light bulb, and a faux leather bench against the wall. She got the key from the office and opened the door.

  “What’s your name, honey,” she said again to the driver.

  He was a kind man. She could tell. He walked quietly, as if afraid of waking someone.

  “Jérôme,” he said.

  “Well, let’s see if we can give you a nice time, Jérôme,” she said.

  She sat him on the bench and took off her robe and underwear. She didn’t want to waste any of his time. She could tell how lonely he was. She just prayed that Serge didn’t do anything crazy while she was in there.

  “How long were you up north?” she said.

  “Two months,” he said. He had a thick French accent.

  “Bien alors,” she said.

  She put her leg over him, straddling his lap. He had the perfect view of her pussy, smooth and soft and delicious. She reached down and pulled open the lips of it so that he could see everything inside. She knew that was what they liked. That was what they wanted to see.

  She showed him the pink folds of flesh inside her pussy and she could tell how hungry he was for her. She lowered herself so that her pussy was resting on his crotch and pressed her breasts into his face. The look of happiness on his face was heartbreaking. What kind of a world was it that sent men up into the wilderness to gather lumber and minerals? She pitied the men who made their life in that rough, cold country.

  She wondered if he had a family, whether there was anyone in the world waiting for him when he got back down south. She moved so that her nipple was resting on his lips. His lips were dry and chapped. His beard was dark and rough.

  “Go on,” she whispered. “You can taste it if you like.”

  She was doing it again. This was exactly what had gotten her into trouble with Caribou Bill. She didn’t understand herself. Was she losing her mind? What was causing her to act this way, to take these steps. She knew it was her soul’s last struggle against the process of losing her womanhood. She wasn’t ready yet to give up. She wasn’t ready to become the hard, bitter, dried up old crone that this place would eventually turn her into. There was kindness and softness and warmth in her yet and she wanted to share that softness, that warmth, before it was lost forever.

  He looked up at her.

  “Suck it,” she whispered.

  Jérôme’s mouth opened just the tiniest bit and her nipple slipped inside. His tongue caressed it hungrily. He sucked on her gently like a suckling baby until she pulled away and moved her other nipple to his lips. Then he licked and sucked gently on that one as well.

  She could feel how hard his cock was getting through his muddy jeans. He was as hard as steel. She rubbed her crotch against the bulge in his pants and could almost feel the throb of it from inside his jeans.

  “I want you to cum,” she whispered to him.

  He looked up at her again and the gratitude in his face was as plain as day. She reached down and took his hands which were resting by his sides and placed them on her butt. Immediately he squeezed her cheeks. She moved her pussy back and forth, again and again. It moved over and over that little bulge in his pants and she could tell from the rhythm of his breathing, the look of desperation on his face, that he was getting close to orgasm.

  “Come on,” she whispered, and put a finger in his mouth.

  She rose up so that her pussy was level with his face and pressed it against his mouth.

  “Lick me,” she whispered.

  She closed her eyes and let the music fill her mind. She didn’t need to remember all of this. She didn’t need the details. She didn’t want to see what was happening. She didn’t even want to feel the sensation of Jérôme’s tongue on her soft, pink vagina. She stood there and swayed to the rhythm of the song as his tongue travelled far into her pussy. She held onto the pole that was above her and let him eat her to his heart’s content.

  Then she lowered herself back down so that her pussy could grind against his crotch once again. She felt it. She felt the pulse of climax go through him like an electrical surge.

  He gasped for breath. He was coming.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “That’s it. This is for you.”

  *

  THE NEXT FEW SECONDS PASSED in a blur that she would never be able to make sense of. She suddenly felt herself flung violently against the far wall of the room. The wall seemed to rush forward to meet her like a speeding truck. She knocked her head against it and might even have blacked out for a second. She wasn’t sure.

  When she looked up she saw Serge. He was in the room and he was punching Jérôme in the face, over and over. Jérôme never had a chance to react. He never had a chance to defend himself.

  One moment he was lost in the ecstasy of an orgasm that he’d been so desperate for, and the next, he was getting his face punched to a bloody pulp by one of the most brutal and notorious bikers in all of Quebec.

  Rose watched for as long as she could, far longer than she ever would have imagined she could watch a thing like that. She could see as Jérôme’s face lost its form, as his features lost distinction and became lost in a mess of blood and torn flesh. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t look away. Her voice seemed to have left her.

  And then she heard it. It was her own voice, screaming, seemingly of its own accord.

  Serge took one look at her and then rose his foot and kicked her. That shut her up. She watched in shocked terror as Serge pulled Jérôme’s limp body from the booth and dragged him down the hallway.

  “What the fuck?” she heard someone say. She didn’t know if it was Rust, Murdoch or the other customer. She never found out. She touched her face. It would bruise later but now it just felt raw. She looked at her finger and saw some blood. Her view was dizzy.

  A moment later Serge was back in the room.

  “Get up,” he said.

  She looked at him and thought she’d never seen anyone so terrifying in all her life. He looked like a monster. His lips were drawn back, baring his gums and teeth like a dog. His fierce blue eyes were crazed like nothing she’d ever seen.

  “Get up,” he screamed again.

  She tried to obey him but her legs gave out. She couldn’t get up fast enough for him.

  Serge took a hold of her by the shoulders and pulled her up onto the leather bench. Then he tore open his jeans and pulled out his rigid cock. It was bigger than it had been earlier when she was dancing for him. It seemed as if violence was the thing that turned him on most.

  He stretched her out over the bench. Her knees were on the floor and her breasts were pressed down against the sticky leather. Her face was inches from the back wall of the room. She waited. She knew what was coming. It was a position she’d been in before and there was nothing she could do about it but wait for what was coming.

  She knew too that there were only so many times that a thing like this could happen to a woman before she lost whatever tenderness her heart could hold. Little by little, day by day, Serge and Murdoch and the other men of the DRMC were ruining her heart and soul and turning her into a lifeless, worthless whore.

  His cock found the opening of her pussy and the next instant it was deep inside her. She screamed out but it didn’t matter what she did in that place. No one was there to help her. No one would ever hear her screams. No one would ever come.

  Serge grunted as he thrust his loins against her, again and again. His giant cock slid so far inside her that she felt as if
he was reaching completely virgin areas of her body, places that no penis had ever reached.

  Rose stared at the wall. She tried to blank her mind. The less she remembered of what was happening, the better. She concentrated on the pattern of paint on the wall, the fine texture. She tried to transport herself away from where she was.

  And then it came, the thick, pulsing globs of semen that poured out of Serge’s cock and filled her pussy.

  “Fuck,” he grunted.

  “Fuck,” Rose cried out at the same time.

  When Serge pulled out of her he put his hand on the back of her head and pushed her face down against the leather bench. Then he was gone.

  Rose didn’t dare leave the booth. She didn’t know what might happen if she did. She didn’t know what condition Jérôme would be in if she saw him. She waited in the booth, locked in the position she’d been in when Serge had left her. For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to move. She remained bent over the leather sofa, and for the second time that week felt the slow, sticky sensation of semen dripping out of her and down her thighs.

  *

  SHE MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP in the booth because at some point she realized she was alone in the club. The lights had been turned out, the music was off, and no one was out in the bar. She stood up and checked herself in the mirror above the sofa. Apart from the shock of what had happened and a little light bruising, she was unhurt.

  She peered out of the booth carefully. No one was in the hall. She tiptoed out to the bar. It was empty. The chairs were on the tables and the floor had been mopped. It seemed Murdoch had gone through the usual process of closing up for the night.

  Rose was naked. She shivered in the cool air. She crossed the bar over to the window and peered out. Moonlight shone through the shades and cast stripes of white, ghostly light on her body. There were no vehicles in the parking lot.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Despite the ghostly eeriness of the place, despite the freezing cold outside, she was glad to be there alone. She went over to the bar and poured herself a strong measure of vodka. Her hand shook as she lifted the glass to her mouth and swallowed the fiery liquid.

  Then she went back to the dressing room and ran the shower. She was grateful the water was hot. Sometimes the heater didn’t kick in and she would be forced to take a shower in water that was ice-cold. She stepped into the hot water and let it flow over her body. There was a half-empty bottle of cheap, drugstore shampoo and she poured some onto the palm of her hand. As she lathered it into her hair, she let the tears pour down over her face and be washed away, down the drain.

  She had to get out of there. She had to get away from that place, rescue herself, before it was too late. She had to change things before that place changed her, permanently.

  VIII

  WHEN THE SUN CAME UP the next morning, Rose was sitting at the bar in her jeans and sweater, sipping coffee from a mug. She shuddered when she heard the three bikes coming down the highway. They pulled into the lot outside and a moment later Serge, Rust and Murdoch came strutting into the bar.

  “Good,” Serge said when he saw Rose at the bar, “you’ve already made coffee.”

  Rose didn’t look up at them. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d been fucked by both Murdoch and Serge during the past few days. She’d been raped. She knew she was nothing more than a possession to them, a piece of ass that they owned, that they could use to make money off of or fuck whenever they felt like it. She wondered what Serge had done to that trucker from the day before. Jérôme, his name had been. She was afraid to ask. She wasn’t sure he would have survived the treatment Serge had given him. She tried to get the image of his pulverized face out of her mind.

  The three men pulled up stools next to her at the bar. She sighed.

  She got up and went round the bar and filled three more mugs with coffee. She placed them in front of the three bikers like pints. Then she went to the fridge and got the carton of cream and put it on the bar too.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” Serge said.

  She didn’t look at him. She went back around to her seat and continued sipping her coffee. The men seemed quiet. She wondered what they were all thinking about. They were usually more talkative than this. Obviously they were hungover, that went without saying, but something more than that was keeping them quiet this morning. She wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that Serge had raped her the day before. She wanted to ask what they’d done to Jérôme but she was afraid to bring it up. She wanted to know if he was dead or alive.

  Serge and Rust would be leaving soon and she’d be glad to see the back of them. Serge never stuck around for long in the mornings. He’d gotten what he’d come for, his money, a taste of Rose, so he’d soon be ready to ride back in to town.

  “Sure is a beautiful morning today,” he said.

  Rust and Murdoch nodded their heads but Rose knew that the comment was aimed at her. She wondered what he was getting at. She wanted him to leave and ride back out to Val-d’Or. She’d seen more than enough of him for the week. He was a monster and an asshole and she had no interest in making smalltalk with him, especially about the weather.

  She said nothing. She kept her eyes down, looking at the bar.

  “Hey, bitch,” Serge said, his tone suddenly becoming darker, “I’m talking to you.”

  She looked up at him. She had no choice. Her life was in his hands.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” she said.

  He smiled, but there was a falseness to the smile. He didn’t seem quite capable of normal human emotions. There was something scarred and damaged about Serge and it made even the most ordinary gestures seem sinister and distorted in some way. Rose thought, if it was possible, that he had a bad soul. She’d seen a lot of bad men in her life and that wasn’t something she’d have thought about any of them, but she thought it about Serge Gauthier.

  “Good,” Serge said, “because I’m taking you on a ride.”

  “What?” Rose said, but she regretted it as soon as it escaped her lips.

  “You got a problem with that?” Serge said.

  He eyed her levelly. She looked away. She couldn’t face those piercing, crazy eyes. They were like two pools of deep blue water that might erupt in anger at any moment. She looked at Rust and Murdoch but they were occupied with their coffee.

  “Of course not,” Rose said. “I’d love to go for a ride. I haven’t been on a bike in two years. I miss it.”

  Serge smiled, that strange, sinister, edgy smile. “I thought you’d like it.”

  “It sounds great.”

  “I mean, after what happened last night, I could understand if you were feeling a bit sore at me.”

  Rose couldn’t believe he was bringing that up. It wasn’t like they’d had a little argument or something. He’d raped her. He’d raped her! She looked again at Murdoch and Rust but their eyes were firmly glued to the bar. She should have known there was no point looking to them for help. They were members of the Dark Rebels, Serge was vice-president of the local chapter, they would never step forward to defend her.

  “It’s fine,” she said quietly.

  “What was that?” Serge said. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “I said it’s okay,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re fine?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can do better than that.”

  She looked up at him. She didn’t know what it was he wanted her to say.

  “Tell him you liked it,” Rust said.

  Rose looked down at the bar. She couldn’t say that. It was cruel of them to make her.

  “Go on,” Murdoch said, eyeing her.

  It seemed all three of them were getting a kick out of this.

  “Tell me how good it was,” Serge said.

  She sighed. There was no use protesting. She couldn’t defy them.

  “I liked it,” she said, as sweetly as she could.

  “Did you?”

&nb
sp; “I loved it,” she said, holding Serge’s gaze.

  Why was he asking her about the rape? Why did they want her to say she liked it? It wasn’t true. She’d been forced. What difference did it make if she said she’d liked it. It was rape. She’d hated it. That was the beginning and the end of it. The fact that he’d done it before, the fact that other members of the club had done it before, the fact that he was getting her to say it was good, none of that made any difference. None of that made it okay. They couldn’t move on from this and be friends now. They would never be friends. Things would never be normal between them.

  She looked at him and all she could feel was hate. She loathed Serge. Every hair on his head, every molecule in his body, she loathed it all. If she had a gun she would have pointed it at him and pulled the trigger.

  “Call me daddy,” Serge said.

  Rose looked down at the bar. Her coffee was cold. She lifted her mug and drank it anyway. It was better than speaking.

  Serge cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said, “I’m talking to you, bitch. You want to go for a ride with me or not?”

  She looked up at him and realized that this hell that was her life was still just beginning. However bad things had been so far, however terrible it had made her feel, it was still just warming up. It could get a million times worse. If Serge took a liking to her, if he started to pay her more attention than he did to his other dancers, if he wanted to treat her special, there was no limit to how bad her life could become.

  “Yes, daddy,” she said weakly.

  “Speak up, bitch. I can’t hear a goddamn word you say.”

  “Yes, daddy. I’d love to go for a ride on your big, loud motorcycle.”

  Serge nodded. He was satisfied.

  *

  THERE WAS NO ONE IN the world Rose would have liked to be on a bike with less than Serge Gauthier. He was a brute and a rapist and a murderer. He had a great bike but she hated him. How could she enjoy the ride?

  But despite all that, riding out along the highway in the early spring sunshine, holding on to him on the back of his bike, she couldn’t help enjoy the feeling of the icy, fresh air blowing through her hair.