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Message-ID: <56213asstr$1184029802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Cracker {Kellis} (MF oral anal drugs)
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Date: Mon, 09 Jul 2007 21:10:02 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

The Cracker

a Story by Kellis
Summer, 2007


I parked the van, careful to lock it, and strolled along the St. Pete 
waterfront among the whores holding up the lampposts.  It was hot as it
often is in St. Pete but the sea breeze helped a lot.  Each girl smiled
as I approached and offered a tentative "Hi!"  One even dared to 
suggest, "You look lonely, fellow.  How about some company?" -- which 
surprised me because of the recent stiffening of local law, wherein some
judges were reported to consider such a question tantamount to 
solicitation.  But I found myself unmoved, even by Miss Rash.  The 
brightly metal-colored knee boots each wore -- the style that year -- put
me off, causing me to wonder that the exacting judges had failed to make
the connection between such boots and the beach front.  But a 
good-natured guy like yours truly hates to reject willing women, however
they reach that state.  I gave each a smile before shaking my head and 
pushing on.

A bit farther along I came across a different specimen.  She was sitting
under the palms on one of the park benches facing the surf, hatless with
stringy blondish hair below her shoulders, wearing a sleeveless cotton 
blouse adequately filled in front and a pair of threadbare jeans holed 
and faded beyond even teen taste.  One leg was crossed over the other, 
leaving the imprint of a shapely calf, with dusty thong sandals on her 
feet.  I particularly noted the lack of boots.

She didn't look up until I stopped beside her bench.  Although absent 
makeup or even lipstick, her oval face was surprisingly pleasant with 
light wrinkles in the eye corners that put her age about thirty.  Her 
face and arms were mildly tanned.  When we made eye contact, she smiled
just a little -- not the falsely welcome smile of the others, more a 
smile of confirmed expectations.

She said brightly, "Took you long enough!"

I returned the smile.  "Waiting for me, were you?"

She stood up, breathed deeply.  "And I'm ready to go."  She was almost 
tall as I.

I nodded and chuckled.  "At least you're not afraid I'm a cop."

"Ha, ha!  Which way?"

I tilted my head.  As I walked away she followed me, drawing abreast.

The other girls gave me one curious glance each as I approached but 
immediately turned their heads.  Usually when you choose one from a 
gaggle of whores, the others exhibit envy of their successful sister, 
expressed as a snort at the chooser's poor taste, but in this case they
ignored her so far as I could tell.  Here the passed-by were invariably
younger and better painted, even if afflicted with bright boots, so the
absence of snorts was even more noticeable.

Nearing the van, I unlocked it with the radio button in my pocket and 
opened the passenger door for her.  She looked at me as if startled but
pivoted docilely into the passenger seat.  When I entered on the 
driver's side, I found her looking around the interior.

She chuckled.  "That's an air mattress."

"Sometimes I like to sleep in here."

"Oh."  She nodded.  "I guess so.  How'd you find me?"

"That was easy," I answered with a smile.  "No boots."

To help her begin the negotiations, I cranked the engine and pulled away
from the curb.  She sighed audibly and said, "I'm lucky I've still got 
jeans."

Traffic was light.  I studied her, sitting quietly in the seat.  Neither
of us had bothered with seat belts.  "You look healthy.  Business can't
be _that_ bad."

"Business!"  She sighed again.  "Business can be awful, especially in 
daylight."  

Now I understood her hesitation: the sympathy angle.  "I thought it was
good 24-7 in St. Pete."  I smiled.  "Maybe I can help you out."  

"Oh, yeah, you'll help," she muttered sarcastically.  "At least I'll eat
and drink.  Where we going?  That turn back there is the way downtown."

"Not much further.  I'm in the Ocean Seven."

Suddenly she was studying me thoughtfully and thoroughly at last.  "You 
want a quickie first, do you?  Will you at least get me a coke?"

A quickie _first_?  I barked a laugh.  "What's on your mind, honey?  You
think I'm a cop?"

Her eyes widened slightly.  "You mean you ain't?"

It was my turn to study her again.  My eyes flicked back and forth 
between her and the traffic.  "You thought I was from the beginning, 
didn't you?  Why?  Do I _look_ like one, for Christ's sake?"

She repeated herself.  "You mean you ain't?"

"No, as in _hell_ no!"

"Well, then, wh-what's happening?"

I grinned.  "Putting you to work.  I'm Blake.  Who're you, honey?"

"S-Sandy.  Oh, god!"  Her hands rose to her face.

"What's the matter?"

"What you gonna do with me?"

"What I had in mind was to take you to my air-conditioned motel room, 
fuck you two or three times in two or three different ways, feed you 
supper in a nice place and put you back on your bench a hundred bucks 
richer."

"You thought ...  B-but ..."  Her eyes had grown even wider.  "But I'm 
not dressed like them."

"Which is why it's you sitting here."

"You mean ... you don't like boots?"

"You got it.  And I do like your _worn_ look."

"W-worn?"

"Leaving off the makeup is part of it."

"You _like_ that?"

I chuckled.  "And no purse on your shoulder.  I know what it adds up 
to."

"You do?"

"I know you girls will do anything the john wants, but most are coy 
about it.  Your style says, 'Let's cut to the chase.'  Why'd you think I
was a cop?"

"Because you came straight to me."

"You think the cops want you?"

"I know they do.  They got paper on me."

"An arrest warrant?  For peddling ass?"

"I'm a cracker."

"As in Florida Cracker?"

"As in crack whore who deals on the side."

"Well!  You're frank."

She sighed.  "Frankness is about all I got left."

"What are you charged with?"

"Dealing."

"Are you hooked?"

"Yeah, I am."  She met my glance without looking away.

"How long since your last fix?"

"Four hours."

"Aren't you getting overdue?"

"Just about."

"You got another?"

"I got a couple rocks but no horn."

"Horn?"

"You know: a glass dick."

"Ah, yes, a crack pipe.  They call it different things in different 
places."

Her face showed curiosity.  "You a user?"

I shook my head.  "My addiction is pussy.  And everything nearby.  They
tell me crack is kind of like that."

"How do you mean?"

"You get a great bang that's over in a couple minutes."

"That's so, mostly."  She thought about it.  "But you ain't hungry for a
while."

I nodded.  "The same as pussy.  Where can you get a horn?"

"Any convenience store."

"Really?"  We were approaching one.  I pulled into the parking lot and 
handed her a ten-dollar bill.  "Go get what you need."

She took the money.  "This is enough for a soda too."

"So get a soda."

"You want one?"

"No."

I wondered if it was enough for her to bolt, but she came out in a few 
minutes chugging down a Pepsi.  The can hit the trash before she got in
the car.

"What's in the bag?" I asked.

She showed me a thin glass pipe, a bit longer than the width of her 
hand, with ... a tiny flower molded in one end.  She burped powerfully 
without comment.

"What's that supposed to be," I asked, "a rose?"

"Yeah, makes it legal, I guess."

"I understand the propane lighter.  What's the steel wool for?"

"Goes in behind the rock, acts like a filter.  Mind if I smoke?"

"Let's wait till we get out of sight.  You implied you need food.  Which
do you want more?"

She took a deep breath.  "Ain't got no food.  Here's your change."

"Keep it."

At the next corner was a McDonalds.  I wheeled to the curbside window 
and ordered two double-cheeseburgers and a coke.  "This'll tide you 
over," I told Sandy.  She accepted the food silently and consumed both 
sandwiches before I reached the motel, two blocks further along.

Waiting while I unlocked, she looked around and sniffed.

I laughed.  "It's not much, but it's private.  Come on in."

As I closed the door, she smiled blissfully.  "God, I love 
air-conditioning!"

"Private and cool," I said.  "Go through to the bathroom."

She marched ahead of me, her flip-flops slapping the thin carpet.  I was
wearing a T-shirt, slacks and loafer.  Period.  It's called planning 
ahead.  I was naked by the time I reached the bathroom door.

She was sitting on the toilet under the bright lights, jeans and panties
around her ankles, pissing.  The convenience store bag was on the sink 
counter beside her.  At sight of me her eyes widened and she giggled.  I
stopped in front of her, caught the edges of her blouse and pulled it 
over her head.  She raised her arms to help.  Reaching behind her, I 
unhooked the ragged bra and tossed it along with her blouse through the
door.  Obviously she had not bathed recently, but I was about to fix 
that.

I knelt and worked one leg out of the dropped jeans but when I turned to
the other, she said, "My shit's in my pocket."  Her eyes were worried.

"I won't bother your shit."

"Can I get a smoke?"

"Not yet.  I want you to take a shower first."

"What's the difference?"  She showed more spirit.  "You know I won't 
give a damn what you do to me when I'm high."

"I want you to get a good shower."

Her eyes narrowed but she raised the foot and let me remove her pants.
I held them up to her.  "Put your stuff on the counter."

She withdrew a small aspirin bottle from her pocket and put it in the 
bag.

"That's all you need?"

"Yeah, but I do need it."

"Aspirin?"

"Everybody uses aspirin."

I tossed her pants into the next room, turned to the combination tub and
shower and started the water.  While I waited for it to heat, I studied
her body.  This was no bikini girl; the tan on face and arms faded out 
on her chest and back.  Her tits were round and droopy but plentiful, 
with big brown nipples and a few cellulite marks on the sides.  She 
stood up and turned to flush the toilet, revealing the start of a paunch
and several mother's marks.  Arms and legs showed no tell-tale 
pinpricks.  The buttocks were well filled.  The tapering thighs were 
also stretch-marked.  Her tits and ass cheeks were spattered with little
bruises.  She was not skinny, despite her drug habit.  My cock stirred.

"You've born kids," I observed over the splashing water.

"Three."

"Where are they?"

"With my mother."

"You married?"

"Far as I know."  She came closer.  My free hand lifted a heavy tit.

"Where is he?"

"In a Louisiana prison."

"The father of all three?"

She grinned wryly.  "Not of my three."

"How long you been hooked on crack?"

"Four years, off and on."

"And you started dealing.  They catch you at it?"

"Sent me up for 48 months the second time, got parole after 12.  That 
was last year."

"How long you been hooking?"

"A year."

Her answers, issued in indifferent tones, had the ring of truth.

"Did something happen to your suppliers?"

"Got took down too."

The water was warm to my liking, not so hot as women seem to prefer.  I
urged her over the lip of the tub and handed her a bottle of motel 
shampoo.

"Wash your hair.  It stinks."

She stood under the spray, eyes closed, and soaped her long hair.  "I 
stink all over.  A john let me have a shower last week, I think."

I rubbed her pubes.  "You've shaved here more recently than that."

"That was Old Man Tuck."

"What do you mean?"

"Homeless guy, likes to shave cooze."

I said admiringly, "Nice work if you can get it."

"Work?  He'll lick you afterwards, even if you're broke."

"And if you're not?"

"Then you give him a couple of bucks."

"As I said, nice work."  I began to wash her torso with soapy hands.  
Soapy tits may be the world's best feeling flesh.  Belly and ass cheeks
don't lag far either.  I noticed about a week's worth of hair under her
arms.  Now I had a full boner.  She stepped back under the shower to 
rinse her hair.  I laid my boner on her hip and put two slick fingers 
into her cunt, another two up her ass.  She shuddered a little as the 
last two went in.

"That hurt?"

"I've still got some feeling there."

"What you have there are hemorrhoids."

"Yeah.  That comes with crack.  Makes turds big and hard and far 
between."

"When did you shit last?"

"Before my hit this morning."

"So you're good for a day or two?"

"I don't care if you fuck me up the ass, if that's what you're getting 
at.  That is, I won't after my hit."

"I'll bet these itch," I suggested, fucking the puffy hole with vigorous
fingers.

Her head went back and her mouth sagged despite the spraying water.

I laughed.  "You love it up the ass, hit or not."

"How'd you know?"

"I've had them too.  Hold on to me and I'll wash your feet."

"My feet?"  But she threw an arm around my shoulders and let me lift her
foot.  Her calves were scratchy with stubble.

"If you want to finish shaving," I said, "I'll loan you a razor before 
we go to supper."

"Oo-oork!"  It was the first time I heard her shrill cry, the product of
overpowering sensation, a soprano squeal that terminated on a rising 
pitch.  "That tickles!"

"I'm scrubbing your feet," I explained after a while, "because I love a
woman's body, every part of it, even one as abused as yours.  Somebody 
pinched the hell out of your tits and ass cheeks.  They've turned yellow
but must be half a dozen marks on each one.  Who did that to you?"

"I didn't notice."

I shook my head.  "Which shows why crack is bad stuff.  Come on out.  
I'll dry your back."

"Want me to wash you?"

"Just my cock, but I've got a better bath in mind for that."

When she was dry, except for long hair flying everywhere, she looked at
me anxiously.  "Can I smoke now?"

"I think I could make you enjoy the sex if you didn't.  But maybe not."
I shrugged and gestured at the counter.  "Go ahead."

She began by tearing off a piece of the steel wool then separating it 
into smaller parts.  She stood before me, bent intently over the 
counter, her ass towards me invitingly.  I spread her cheeks while she 
worked.  The hemorrhoids were purplish puffs of flesh surrounding her 
asshole.  I reached past her for the motel sample of cold cream and 
slathered my cock head.  She flinched when the cold tip touched her and
shivered as it pushed through the puffs.  Her asshole was relaxed and 
loose.

"Ooo!" she murmured as I slid the shaft slowly up her ass.  No hard turd
blocked the path.  I let my cock linger at full penetration.

She took a deep breath.  "I knew you'd do that."  She pressed backward,
grinding her butt around to scratch her affliction on my pubic hair.  
"Oo-oork!"

I chuckled.  "I love that squeal, Sandy."

"This feels almost as good as a hit."

She soon ceased to grind in favor of her work with the "horn," carefully
spilling a greenish quarter-inch pill from the aspirin bottle into the 
glass tube, followed by a judiciously chosen pinch of the steel wool, 
all tamped down by a thinner glass rod that she had first pulled out of 
the tube.

I commented, "The law has to know this 'rose' tube is what they call 
'drug paraphernalia.'"

"So?"

"But maybe not until it's found on somebody with drugs."  I was amused 
at myself, thinking of such matters with my cock completely sheathed 
inside a woman's hot gut.

"Back up, Blake, honey.  I've got to hold still for this."

So she had noted my name!  I would have withdrawn, but her buttocks 
followed me back, retaining the cock up her ass.  She bent down until 
her face was even with the countertop.  With elbows braced on the 
counter, she lit the propane lighter, holding the flowered end of the 
horn in the flame.  All was still except for the hissing of the lighter.
After a moment the horn issued a distinct pop followed by a crack, the 
onomatopoetic substance name.  Her head bent further and she sucked on 
the cool end of the glass tube.  She had hardly begun before I felt her
sphincter tighten.

She settled lower as if beginning to kneel.  I caught her hips and 
helped support them.  The horn continued to crack and she to suck it, 
holding each breath in her lungs.  In less than a minute the lighter 
fell from her hand to the countertop.  She rose up slowly and leaned 
back against me, sphincter still clamping my cock.

"Oh god!" she said with a mighty sigh.

I don't think I ever before fucked a standing woman up the ass.  It 
helped a lot that she was about my height.  I moved slowly, cock sliding
in and out only an inch or two.  Her sphincter relaxed as I pushed in, 
tightened as I pulled back.

"Is that automatic?" I asked.

"Mmm, auto ..."

Suddenly she sagged, disconnected us.  I caught her under the armpits 
and steered her out the door, stumbling over our clothing on the floor 
but managing to keep my feet.

I laid her facedown on the bed and bent over her, cock in hand, planning
to put it back into her ass.  But I'd heard crackheads get over the rush
in five or ten minutes.

An arm under her tits lifted her against me while the other turned down
the bed.  She ended up on her back atop the sheet, eyes open and staring
up.  Her pupils were dilated almost totally.  Of course I had never 
opened the drapes and the room was dim except for the light from the 
bathroom.  Curious, I went to the mirror over the dresser and studied my
own pupils.  Hers were wider.

I returned to the bed beside her.  Here was a lush female bod available
to me, even if its mind was effectively shut down.  I amused myself by 
cupping and stroking the tits, pinching and sucking the nipples.  They 
stiffened despite the crack; must be a pretty basic reflex.  But her 
clit didn't thicken when I addressed it.  She grunted when I tried to 
put fingers in her dry cunt, so I went to the bathroom for the cold 
cream.  My fingers entered successfully after a good slathering.  I 
compressed her flesh between thumb on clit and three fingers in cunt.  
After a while I got an "Ooo!" out of her.

"Coming down?" I asked.

She turned on her side and looked at me.  My fingers kept working.

"Thank you," she said.  "I needed that."

"Figured you did.  Now I'll get _my_ fix."

"What do you use?"

"Pussy.  You."

"You said that before, didn't you."  She parted her legs.  "It's all 
yours."

I slipped between them and put into her easily.  A grunt as I parted the
flesh was her only reaction.  I pushed a few strokes but caught her by 
the hips and exerted myself to roll her over on top of me.  Her torso 
flopped like a rag doll and our heads banged together painfully.  With 
one hand on her butt keeping us coupled, I used the other to position 
her squarely atop me.  The big tits flopped out on the sides of my chest
and her chin hooked over my shoulder.  I began a slow fuck.

At first she only let me.  I turned my head and licked her ear with 
broad strokes.  After a minute of that, her belly muscles tightened and
she began to move as a woman on top does when it feels good: forward and
back instead of and up and down.  Her tits ground my chest.  It also 
felt good to my cock.

As a distraction I asked -- not that I gave a shit, "When did you last 
get fucked?"

"Yesterday...  No, the day before."

"Who was he?"

"Two of 'em.  Twin brothers."

"They fucked you at the same time?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

"In my bottom."

"You loved it, didn't you?"

"Sure.  Gave me enough for several rocks."

"I bet you knew them already."

"They look me up every week or so."

"What's a rock cost these days?"

"Sixty bucks for the ones with baking soda."

"What's the alternative?"

"Ammonia.  It's cheaper but I can't stand it 'less it's all I can get."

"Your twin brothers don't have a shower?"

"Not behind the dumpster at Waterfront Steakhouse."

"Cheap shits, eh?"

"Well, they spend their money on _me_."

"Which you then have to spend for a shower -- if you get one."

We fucked on.  She said, "Thank you for that too."

"While you're feeling grateful, put it up your ass."

She disconnected, sat up on my upper thighs, leaned back on one arm and
caught my cock with the other hand.

I said, "Cold cream on the night stand."

"I don't want no cold cream."

She hitched her butt forward against the tip.  "Ooo!" she murmured, 
shivering.

"What you want is to scratch," I accused.

With a twist or two she worked the dong into herself.  The puffy flesh 
was sticky but the loose sphincter eased my entrance.  It may feel 
better to push through a tight one if everything is well greased, but 
hers was special even for a cock that was only pussy-wet.

Now her motion was different.  Kneeling over my hips, she bounced up and
down, let it rest for half a second and bounced again.  I could just 
reach the headboard lamp.  I stuck a pillow behind my head and watched my 
cock reappear and disappear up her ass.  Her eyes burned on mine.  
"Oo-oork!" she squealed.

I chuckled.  "I know what you love.  When it goes in, it takes your 
piles with it."

"Oo-oork!"

Her head went back.  Of her face I could only see the point of her chin,
but each bounce of her ass was reflected prettily in her tits.  I 
reached up and grabbed them, kneading the flesh, pinching the nipples.

"Oo-oork! ... Oo-oork!"  She shuddered and increased her speed.

I took the game away from her by grabbing her hips and fucking her 
powerfully and fast.  She tensed up.  "Oo-oork!"  Her hands closed on my
arms.  "Oo-oork!"

"You can't be coming," I told her fiercely, beginning to pant.  "There's
no clit around your asshole."

But she could -- or she was putting on a good imitation, shuddering left
to right.  The "Oo-oorks!" were continuous, like a birdcall.  Suddenly 
she collapsed forward upon me, despite my hands again full of tit, and 
lay still except for a sphincter that clamped and released, clamped and
released.

That fetched me too.  I pushed her chest off me.  She stared at me 
dumbly, mouth hanging open.  "That's right," I ordered.  "Suck it."

She wriggled backwards and slurped up my straining cock without 
hesitation.  Her nostrils flared and her eyes regarded me blankly.  My 
hands clutched her head and I managed to fuck her mouth for two or three
strokes before the first spurt.  God!  I'm sure I let out a groan or 
two.

She sneezed and sprayed my stuff back over my belly before flopping 
backwards on the bed between my feet.  Her asshole pointed at me 
accusingly, purple hemorrhoid puffs re-emerging as I watched under the 
headboard lamp.

She rose up on her elbows.  We stared at each other over the exposed, 
angry genitals.  Residual semen glittered on her chin and drained from 
my wilting cock.  She coughed more onto her lips.

Then she grinned and produced a giggle.

"What's funny?"

She shrugged with one shoulder, wiggling that tit.  "Nothing.  I just 
like a good ass fuck."

"Sure you're not laughing at my jism belly?"

Her face went solemn.  "I did that, didn't I?  That happens if you let 
go down in my throat.  It tickles."

"Well, don't apologize."

"I ain't."  Her hand went to her mouth and she giggled again.  "It's 
your own stuff."

She rolled over me, got to her feet on the floor and went to the 
bathroom, emerging with a clean face plus a wet cloth and towel that she
used to wipe my belly and genitals.  "Good enough?"

"Thank you," I said.  "You surprise me."

She grinned.  "I didn't think you was through with me."

"I'm surprised you're that alert.  Does your smoke have such a brief 
effect?"

"The crack high don't last long, not if you smoke it, but it leaves you
feeling kind of good for a few hours."

"Like now?"

She stretched, tits lifting and arms straightening too far in the 
womanly way, and grinned.  "Just like now."

Her grin faded.  She stood, looking down at me, obviously waiting.  I 
thought I saw a hint of goosebumps on her arms.

"You cold?"

"I'll get back in bed."

"Wait a minute."  I stood up, pulled a T-shirt from the dresser drawer 
and handed it to her.  "Put that on."

Her eyebrows rose.  "You don't want to admire my boobs?"

"I was thinking of your tonsils."

She blinked, face blank.  I walked around her, patting her ass as I 
passed, picked up the TV remote, turned the single overstuffed chair 
partly sideways and sat in it with my legs spread wide.

"Put it on and come here."

She obeyed.

"Sit between my legs and lean back on one...  No, don't squat.  You'll 
get tired of that.  Get a pillow off the bed and sit on it."

As she sat down I turned her enough to see the TV past my other leg.

"Now suck me."

She leaned in, mouthed the whole flabby cock and suckled it noisily, 
cheeks collapsing.  I watched her until it firmed up then turned on the
television.

"What kind of TV do you like?"

She blinked at me, looked astonished and took the tip out of her mouth 
long enough to say, "Who watches TV?"

"Sometimes I do."  I found a golf broadcast, nice and leisurely, 
somebody lining up a long putt while the announcer spoke in low tones 
and the gallery kept respectfully silent.  "Especially when I've got a 
pretty mouth to put my cock in.  You don't have to suck much, just hold
it in your mouth."

She shrugged but kept it in, turning her head enough to follow the 
progress of the putt.  It missed.

For the next half hour we watched the tournament, Sandy with a mouthful
and me enjoying her raspy tongue.  Unlike others I had tried at this 
favorite task, she was not at all restless.  Her hand squeezed my balls
gently while she suckled.  Some good things can be said of a crack 
cocksucker.

At a commercial I turned off the TV.  When she looked up, I patted her 
head.  "You getting hungry again?"

She nodded a little.

"Then spit out the cock and play valet."

She drew back her head.  "Play what?"

"You saw where I got your T-shirt.  Bring me some clean underclothes."

She blinked, rolled to her feet, went to the dresser drawer and returned
with white cotton.  I stood and held out my arms to her.  She blinked 
again but got the idea, opening the T-shirt, pushing it on me and 
pulling it down my sides.  One after the other I lifted my feet and she
pulled up the jockey shorts, grinning as she made a tent to cover the 
still hard cock.  But the grin faded.  She reached into the shorts and 
enclosed my gristle proprietarily.

"You afraid it'll get away?" I asked.

She took a deep breath, tits heaving.  "This was a good afternoon."

"Yes, it was.  You'll find a fresh shirt in the upper drawer.  Break it
out for me."

She took it from the laundry's plastic wrap, brought it to me and held 
it for my arms.  "Want me to button it?"

"I'll take care of the rest.  You'll find a comb in my travel case if 
you want to do anything to your hair."

She picked up her scattered clothing as she went to the bathroom.  In a
couple minutes she returned, dressed as I had originally seen her, hair
combed back in natural waves.

She eyed my fresh clothing.  "This is all I've got to wear."

"Don't worry about it.  You look good to me.  Come on."

"I look like your poor relation from the sticks."

"So what?"

"Or a crack whore you found on the beach."

"Which you are, so what're you afraid of?  Think about the food."

"What about my stuff?"

"We'll come back for it."

She looked doubtful but followed me to the car anyway.  I took her to a
steakhouse, where the hostess looked Sandy up and down with something 
akin to horror, again as the flip-flops clapped on the parquet floor, 
but seated us without comment of course.  I ordered filets for us both.
Sandy refused a glass of wine in favor of a coke.  Her table manners 
were what you'd expect, not bad except for an impatient finger holding 
food for the fork and forgetting the napkin.  But her other manners were
far more important to me.

Half-way through I said, "Sandy, how many guys have fucked you?"

She shrugged.  "I didn't count 'em."

"I mean since you started hooking."

"It'd be easier to say how many before."

"Five a week?"

"Maybe.  I really don't know, Blake."

"But the point is, you're not afraid of men."

"Well ..."  She grinned.  "Not like I was ten years ago."

"I've got a proposition for you."

Her eyes twinkled.  "That's different."

"It is in your case.  You still haven't mentioned money."

"_You_ mentioned it."

"And I'll do what I said, if that's what you want."

"You got something else in mind?"

"Yeah.  How about coming with me?"

"Do what?"

"I travel a lot.  I think I need a very personal maid, somebody like 
you."

She grinned a little.  "Somebody who'll bring you your clothes?"

"And help me watch TV."

"Them's the easy parts."  Her grin vanished.

"What do you think is the hard part?"

"Taking all my bread.  Withholding my crack till I'll fuck a dog."

"I won't be your pimp, Sandy."

She studied me.  "What do you do for a living, Blake?"

"Nothing.  I don't need money."

"Everybody needs money."

"Put it this way: I've got enough for both of us."

She shook her head slowly.  "So you come out with this just like that."

"Why not?  I love your attitude.  Your asshole too, in case you didn't 
know."

"Everybody's got one of them."

"Not everybody loves a cock up hers."

"Okay.  What else would I have to do?"

"Not much.  Ride around with me.  Laugh at my jokes.  Fuck me."

"And who else?"

"Well ...  You did say you're not afraid of men."

"Who else?"

"Actually I don't know."

She stared into my eyes and chuckled a little.  "You want me to help you
get men, is that it?"

I'd thought of that.  Under some circumstances ...  What the hell?  If 
she wouldn't, now was the time to find out.

"I might."

"You _might_."

"That's right.  But none that would slam you around or beat you.  I 
won't stand for that.  And it'll be a lot different from roasting on a 
beach, not sure where your next meal is coming from."

"You travel to other cities?"

"Yeah, all over the country."

"Just looking for whores?"

"Mainly.  If you're worried about your crack supply, I'm sure it's easy
to find everywhere.  And the cops won't know you."

"You don't care about my crack?"

"I think it helps to explain your attitude."

"Hmph.  You'll keep hiring whores?"

"Yeah.  If you like girls, you can play too."

"I've done it.  They're missing something."

"What?"

"Cocks."

I would have grinned but his was an important point.  "We won't have a 
romantic relationship, Sandy.  I'm not a one-woman guy."

"You know what they say about a man who can't find what he wants in a 
thousand women."

"I've heard it, but I'll admit being surprised _you_ have!"

She shrugged.  "Sure you ain't looking for a boy, Blake?"

"I _do_ find what I want: the thousand women!  I also like them more 
than one at the time.  You could help me with that."

She studied my face.  "The cops are after me."

"Which should give you another reason to go with me."

"You don't care?"

"It's just the St. Pete cops, right?"

She shrugged.  "How long do I have to think about it?"

"Until you ask to go back to your park bench."

Walking out of the restaurant, she snuggled closer to me until our hips
rubbed.  "You're thinking about it," I noted.

"Blake, it's too good to be true."

"Try me.  Say the word and we'll go buy you a wardrobe.  If you stick 
with me, I promise I won't leave you nearly as bad off as you are now."

At the motel I found a note stuck to the knob.  It read, "Call 
744-0128."  I showed it to Sandy.  "This for you?"

"Huh!  Where would I get a phone?"

"In here."

But when we entered the room, she dropped it on the table indifferently.
She strode back and forth, obviously thinking.  I sat down and turned on
the TV to watch the evening news -- not that anything was new.  They 
should call it the "evening olds."

When I turned the device off, she planted herself in front of me.  "What
if I want to kick my habit?"

"Crackheads don't want to quit."

"Oh, but I do!  You don't know how much."

"Then I'll put you in a rehab clinic, but it worries me, Sandy."

"Why?"

"Your most attractive asset is your attitude."

"My _attitude_?"

"Who else would suck me for half an hour while I watch TV?"  I regarded
her curiously.  "How long will you do that, an hour?  Two hours?"

She regarded me grumpily.  "Other girls won't, huh?"

"Not reliably."

She sighed.  "Let me see if I get it.  You'll feed me, clothe me, put a
roof over my head.  Give me money for my habit?"

"Plus money to spend.  And medical expenses."

"Okay.  And for all that, I have to fuck you whenever you say and suck 
your dick for hours while you pay me no attention.  And help you get 
other girls, maybe fuck other guys for you, while we travel all around.
Is that about it?"

"And the little things.  Picking up after me.  Playing valet."

"A lot like a wife.  What if I get pregnant?"

"Can you?"

"I don't know.  I ain't been careful."

"We'll get you a checkup.  And pills if you need them."

"Shit, Blake!  It's a sort of a future -- least till you get tired of 
me."

I grunted.  "Hell, you'll become indispensable."

"Yeah," she agreed dryly, but her face changed.  "I didn't think I had a
future."

"Does that mean you accept?"

She took a deep breath.  "For a while, I guess."

"Where do we go to get your things?"

"What things?"

"All right.  Shall we buy you some clothing and a suitcase tonight or 
wait till tomorrow?  Would you like to try a beauty salon?"

She looked at me.  The strange expression deepened.  "You're serious, 
ain't you?"

"I am."

"Blake ..."  She sighed.  "You have to make an appointment at the 
salon."

I gestured at the telephone.  "Make one for tomorrow morning if you 
can."

"They're all closed now."

"So call them first thing in the morning."  I grinned suggestively.  "In
the meantime let's watch some TV."

"Can I smoke first?"

"You need it already?"

"It could wait.  But I can 'watch TV' longer if I ain't hungry."

"Point.  Go ahead."

She vanished into the bathroom.  I turned on the TV and immediately 
found an old John Wayne movie, _Hondo_, in which I remembered him 
experimenting with a plain-jane heroine.  The similarities amused me.  I
was about to settle down and soak it up again when a sharp rapping 
sounded at the outside door.  Good thing I hadn't taken off my slacks.

I set the limiting chain and opened it a few inches to see a uniformed 
cop who asked promptly, "May I come in, Mr. Clayton?"

It was the name I had signed on the motel registry.  "No, but I'll come
out."  I released the chain and opened the door.  He stared quickly 
around the room over my shoulder before stepping back.  I pulled the 
door closed behind me, hearing the lock click.

"What can I do for you, Officer --" I checked out his nameplate "-- 
Barnham?"

Although the sun had set, the sky still glowed brightly.  He took a 
photograph from a shirt pocket and passed it to me.  "Do you recognize 
this woman?"

Of course it was Sandy, younger and prettier, made up with her hair set
in waves.  I shrugged and handed it back.  "Not that I recall."

The policeman grinned like a fox at a rabbit hole.  "That's funny.  She
was seen getting in your SUV about three o'clock."  He pointed off to 
his left.  "That one right there."

"So what?"

He shook his head.  "Look, I'm not vice.  We got a john law in this town
but it ain't her john I'm after.  We know you left here with her about 
six.  All we want is to hear where you dropped her."

He hadn't seen me return with her but obviously knew she wasn't on her 
park bench.  I had a couple points to consider before answering: the 
hour we'd spent at supper and my lack of familiarity with the 
neighborhood.  But I knew one location.

"That's all, huh?  And what happens to me after I tell you?"

"Nothing.  You can get back to your Western."

I took a breath as if reluctant.  "If I'd known it was that far, I 
wouldn't've done it.  She wanted to go into Tampa."

"Where?"

I grinned.  "Would you believe right across from the sheriff's office on
North Florida Avenue?"

"No."

"I wouldn't either if I hadn't let her out there."

His eyes took on a distant look.  "Goddam!  Those sons-a-bitches're at 
it again."

"Huh?"

"Selling crack.  You didn't know your playmate was a crackhead?"

I shrugged.  "Nothing to me."

"All right, Mr. Clayton.  Thanks for your cooperation."  He nodded, 
turned away and walked rapidly toward the sheriff's cruiser parked 
beyond my SUV.

I latched the door behind me, threw shirts, underwear, trousers and 
laptop into my bag, grabbed it and ran into the bathroom.  Sandy, 
dressed as I had first seen her, sat on the john, head thrown back 
against the wall, eyes closed, her horn on the counter still emitting a
wisp of vapor.  I gathered my shaving stuff into its bag, stuffed her 
horn and aspirin bottle in the white convenience bag, hesitated a moment
and finally zipped her bag into mine.

I opened the high glazed window that I'd carefully greased.  Windows in 
bathrooms are rare in motels, but when the room has no back door I insist 
on them.  I stood on the bathtub edge and poked my head out, looking 
around carefully.  No sheriff's car was evident, not that it meant much.  
Taking chances is part of life, and they had no reason to suspect me of 
anything but whore-hopping.  Not yet.  So I tossed my bags out.

"What're you doing?" asked Sandy.

"Leaving.  A cop was at the door."

"Where's my stuff?"

"You're going too.  Come on."

She stood up and came to me uncertainly.  "Through that window?"

I put her hands on top of the window frame.  "Hook your fingertips over
that and lift while I push."  I guided her feet through the opening and
shoved her butt after them.  She disappeared into the twilight.  I 
followed her, falling astride the crouched body, knocking her onto hands
and knees.  She crawled out from under me easily.

"Sorry," I muttered.  "Hope that didn't hurt your knees."

She smiled beatifically.  "Nothing hurts now."

Let's hear it for crackheads!  I reached back through the window, dug a
fingernail into the putty under the glass and pulled it closed until it
latched.  If nobody looked close, its availability as an escape hatch 
might not be noticed.

I gathered my two bags in one hand and caught her elbow with the other.
"Let's get out of this parking lot."

I hurried her toward the street.  She looked at me over her shoulder.  
"What about your van?"

"It's a rental.  I'll mail them the key."

Across the street was a park full of palms and flowering bushes.  I 
pushed us in deep and flopped with our backs against a palm.  "What's 
the next street over?" I asked.

She thought a moment.  "130th."

"And the name of this park?"

"I don't know.  It's the only one on 130th."

I unzipped, pulled out the older of my two throw-away cellphones and got
the number of a taxicab company.  Its operator agreed to pick up two 
passengers at the park on 130th Street.  I took Sandy's hand and led us
across the park to a bench next to the street, where I put my arm around
her shoulder.

"You never kissed me," she said.

I thought briefly of all the cocks that had passed those puckered lips,
but none of them was in there now.  I tilted her chin toward me and 
tongued her deeply.  She sighed nasally and responded in kind.  Her 
tongue tasted like every other one: like my own.

She laid her head against mine contentedly.

"You're not interested in the cop?" I asked.

She sighed again.  "That didn't surprise me."

"Oh, yeah?  Well, it did me.  Don't think I ever heard of the law 
chasing a hooker into a motel room."

"They keep real close tabs on me."

"But still let you hook and buy drugs."

She giggled.  "Sounds strange, don't it?"

"Why such interest in the most worn-out looking hooker on the beach?"

She said with mild annoyance, "They're the reason I look like this."

"You mean they drive off business?"

"Word has got around."

"Word about what?"

She took a deep breath.  "I hate to tell you but I will."

"Tell me what?"

"You'll drop me like a hot potato."

I studied her.  "They're using you for bait, are they -- something bigger
than john bait?"

She bit her lip and begged, eyes lowered, "Don't run me off, Blake."

"I can't imagine doing that."

"All right."  She continued tremulously, "My husband's supposed to know
how to find a big stash of horse, worth a ton of money, that got lost 
when his gang went down.  The cops think he told me where it is."

"I ... see."

"They check on just about everybody I meet, pull me in if I start 
spending too much money, look for me if I'm out of sight too long.  What
did you tell them?"

I grinned.  "That I dropped you off in Tampa at the sheriff's office."

"Oh!"  She smiled at me.  "You used to could buy crack across from the 
one on North Florida."

"I took a lucky guess."

She giggled but sobered.  "Theirs ain't so lucky."

"Their guesses?"

"That I know something about that heroin."  She sniffed.  "Tally never 
told me shit about it, and I asked him particular the last time they let
me see him.  In fact I don't think they ever was any big stash."

Carefully I watched her face and listened to the tone of her voice.  She
spoke in exactly the same manner she had used when telling of her 
children, addiction and jail time -- all of which I had previously known
to be absolutely true.

I'm not a man to dally.  Other buttons got pushed on the cellphone.  The
receiver only rang twice.  "Yeah?" said a man's voice.

"A message for Manello."

"Who's this?"

"Carber."

"Go ahead."

"Tell him the hole is dry."

The phone was silent for a moment.  "He ain't gonna like that."

"Tell him exactly that: the hole is dry.  I'll send him my bill."

"Got it."

I dropped the cellphone to the sidewalk, stomped it with my heel until 
the case shattered and threw the larger pieces into the adjacent trash 
can.

Sandy watched me with curious composure.  When I sat back down, she 
asked, "Who are you, Blake -- or is it Carber?"

"Keep calling me Blake.  I'm a P. I."

"A what?"

"A private investigator, one with a certain reputation.  I don't need 
the money but like to keep my hand in.  I'll work for anyone who can 
afford me and who knows how to reach me."

"So you _are_ a cop!"

"Okay, a private cop."

She giggled.  "I knew you were coming to get _me_!"  Her grin faded.  
"Well, you sure got me.  Will you at least take me back to my park 
bench?"

"I think you'll feel a lot less pressure now, Sandy, even from the cops.
But I meant what I said.  If you haven't changed your mind, you're going
with me.  My next job is in St. Louis.  Want to come along?"

A taxi drifted down the street.  I stood up and waved it to the curb.  
"Well?" I said to her inquiringly, holding the back door open.

She got into the car with me.

"Where to, Mister?" asked the cabbie.

I said, "Airport or beach, Sandy?"

She grinned.  "How about the mall?"


END
Contact: kellis@dhp.com

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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