|Means to an End
by CreamyLady ©
She sat at her usual table, a Coke in front of her, eyes fixed somewhere to the back of the lead singer. She was alone, as usual, dressed in the clothes young girls wore when they worked in offices. She knew that the bartender wasn't quite sure about her, but it didn't worry her. She didn't look like a pro, didn't come on aggressively, keeping to herself. She knew, somehow, that the bartender knew she was underage, but she never ordered booze, paid promptly and tipped, and was quiet and polite. As far as anyone knew, she came to the hotel bar to listen to the band.
She did, however, leave with a different man every night, and had for the past two months.
She sipped her Coke and waited.
The makeup was expertly applied, a little heavier on one side; not noticeable in the dim bar. The bruise was fading, and she thanked her lucky stars for a quickly healing body. She didn't hurt very much tonight, and that was good news. She had $1100 dollars in an envelope locked away in her desk drawer at work; another $200 and she'd be free.
She checked her watch; it was a little after 9:00. If necessary, she could go back to the apartment; he'd be gone to work, and she could at least get a little sleep. However, if she got lucky tonight, she'd never have to go back at all.
She tried to keep her mind blank, though she began to size up the arrivals in the bar. Business types, here for conventions, not affluent enough to stay at the big hotels but looking for a little fun. She dismissed a group of young men, loud and boisterous. She had a knack of being invisible to them, and they walked past her to a group of more vivacious and inviting women.
Her eyes swept the remainder, and she saw him. Mid 40's, big, a little paunchy and grey hair. Very nice suit, glasses . . . yes.
She stopped being invisible, rose and walked to the bar to get another Coke. She, herself, couldn't explain how she did it, but as she moved next to the man, somehow her perfume became a little more pronounced, her hair - long and flowing freely - a little ruddier in the dim light. Under the trim grey suit jacket, her breasts seemed fuller, and she very lightly brushed against the man as she turned from the bar.
Her eyes through her wire-rimmed glasses seemed huge, and she smiled and murmured an apology. He followed her to the table.
His name was Paul, though it was really unimportant. He owned a small manufacturing plant in Columbus. He was married, and had three teenagers, two boys and a girl. He had been in meetings all day, hadn't had dinner, and was she interested?
She smiled, nodded, and rose with him. Her head came to his shoulder; he was very tall. His arm was light on her shoulders, and she inhaled his scent; pipe tobacco, scotch - his aftershave was a little elusive; something old fashioned, spicy and light.
It was going to be all right.
They had dinner in the hotel restaurant. This was new, but not unpleasant; she hadn't eaten since breakfast. She didn't tell him much, just that she worked in a credit union, had left home - she didn't specify why - and had been living with her boyfriend, but that hadn't worked out. She drew him out, about his job, his life, his interests. She learned that he had a nice house and two cars. He liked Florida a lot; wasn't too sure about California. His children were bright and no trouble. His wife was a volunteer with a church group.
She also learned that his wife wasn't interested in sex anymore; that he had, well, needs; that he didn't think he'd seen anyone prettier than the young lady he was with. She was nice, too, letting him talk like that. He talked a lot about his daughter, how bright she was, how accomplished.
She smiled at him. It wasn't forced; he was a nice man, and pleasant company. She noticed that his thumb was tracing a pattern on her wrist; it felt very pleasant, and she felt arousal beginning. Sometimes that made it easier. She looked at his hands; they were square, and hard.
She moved her foot under the table, slipping out of her pump and rubbing her stocking-clad toes against his ankle. Her hand dropped to his thigh, stroking it gently as he tried to maintain the conversation; his breathing became a little harsh, his cock straining.
"Jesus!" was what he said, and called for the check. She slipped back into her shoe and moved her hand, giving him time to compose himself. They didn't speak as the waiter brought the bill and he signed for the dinner, nor as they rose and walked to the elevator.
They were alone in the elevator, and when the door closed he pulled her close, kissing her very firmly, strongly - it hurt, and she knew how it would go; she became quiet, a little passive, open and receptive and submissive. His hands gripped her breasts and tightened, there was pain, but pleasure, too, and he took her by the hand as the door opened and they walked down the corridor to the room.
Once inside, he turned on the light and went to close the drapes, telling her over his shoulder to undress. She put her bag neatly on a chair, removed her jacket and skirt, then her blouse. These she placed neatly over the back of the chair; they weren't expensive, or of good quality, but they were one half of her working wardrobe. She took off her slip, folding that neatly; unhooked her brassier, and stood in her garter belt, panties and stockings.
He watched her, having removed his jacket and tie. "Come here," he said, and she walked toward him, familiar feelings of desire and fear rising within her. "Good girl," he said, reaching up and pinching both nipples, hard, twisting them. Her eyes filled with tears, but she smiled.
"Really good girl," he added, then ripped her panties; they fell off.
"Don't ever wear panties again," he said, giving her five sharp smacks on her bottom. They stung.
"No, Sir," she whispered.
"I like obedience," he told her, pushing on her shoulders. She moved gracefully to her knees in front of him, her fingers working at his belt, trouser fastenings and zipper. His cock was good sized, but not enormous, and she obediently took it in her mouth, licking him, sucking him, then opening wide and thinking of nothing as he fucked her mouth, pushing, forcing, slamming into her; she could feel him in her throat and relaxed as much as possible; it would be over soon.
He didn't come in her mouth, but moaned and grunted. "Good, good girl," he whispered, stepping back and helping her up. He sat on the bed, pulled her face down over his thighs, and proceeded to spank her, hard, her bottom flaming and sore. She was crying, tears falling on his legs, but thanking him, and finally he pushed her off, smiling into her tear-filled eyes and tremulous smile.
"Christ, where have you been all my life?" he asked, picking her up again and pushing her over the pillows on the bed. She was on her knees, but they were splayed wide; her cunt and ass were both open, accessible, and he gave her two swats on the ass - one for each cheek - and a very hard swat over her cunt. The tears fell again; again she thanked him.
She heard a tearing sound, and assumed he was putting on a condom. She felt his fingers probing her bottom, moving inside her, spreading her. She relaxed, and was ready for his thrust. He wasn't gentle, he was hard, slamming into her.
"You are just a little painslut, aren't you?" he whispered. "God, you're tight . . . yes, that's right, clench, work my cock, you like that, don't you slut," over and over and over. She did work him; she knew what to do, and it hurt, hurt so much, hurt so damned good . . . she came, crying out in fear and surprise, and he slapped her again, pushing and fucking . . .
And came, pumping into her, again and again, crying out hoarsely, collapsing on her.
He rolled off a few minutes later, and pulled her next to him. They fell asleep.
He woke her several times that night, taking her in her mouth and cunt. In between they slept, and she cuddled next to him, feeling oddly secure. In the first light, he took her again, gently, sweetly, loving her body warmly and stroking her . . . she cried when she climaxed, holding him, crying out his name.
She rose first, and dressed while he used the bathroom. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. "That was great, honey, absolutely great," he said. "Here's a little something for you, to get you a cab home at least."
He handed her a roll of bills; there was a hundred on the outside. "Thank you," she said.
"Really, you are something else," he moved to the door, to open it for her. "By the way," he added, as she walked through it, "did I mention that you really remind me of my daughter?"
She barely stiffened, and managed a wonderful smile. "I've heard that before."
He laughed, and turned, closing the door behind her. She walked to the elevator, the money clutched in her hand, and left the hotel by a little-used side door, leading to a residential street. She walked for another half mile, and looked up at the window of her apartment; he was home, so she kept walking and sat at the bus stop. She got on the next bus, and was at her desk on time.
Only then did she look at the bundle of bills: $250, enough for freedom. She thought about it, thought a lot. She bought some traveler's checks with the money in her envelope, and quit her job on the spot, taking the bus again to downtown. She bought some cheap jeans and some tee shirts; a hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste - but no panties -- and a ticket on the first bus out of town.
As she waited for the bus, she took the first deep breath she'd taken in years, since her 12th birthday; she was just 19. She felt tension leave her, felt the bruises ease. She waited for the happiness to catch up with the relief, and made one brief return journey, in her mind, to the past, and didn't blink as the scenes played in her mind, finishing with the scene the night before.
The bus was announced as the last scene played, and she rose, a huge bright smile on her face, her new backpack her only luggage. She found a seat, pulled out a paperback book and settled in as the bus pulled out of the station. Her last thought on the subject, as she watched the freeway signs pass, was that the ultimate destination was unimportant; the important thing was getting out of Dodge.
It never struck her as ironic that the bus was headed for Columbus.
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