 The attached work of fiction is intended to be entertainment for
 adults in locations where it is legal.  If it is illegal in your
 location, DO NOT read.  This is a copyrighted work.  Reposting or
 any other use strictly prohibited without the express, written
 permission of the copyright holder, except may be posted as part
 of a  review or posted to free-access, noncommercial archive
 sites.
 
 Copyright June 2000 by E. Z. Riter.
 
 E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com
 
 Please!        Give me your comments!
 
 Dear Reader, This story is part of Ruthie's Foursome, in which
 Jack of All Trades, DrSpin, Mr. Slot and I, all of whom have the
 privilege of sharing Ruthie as our editor, each wrote stories
 using a common theme.  I hope you'll read and enjoy all four.  My
 thanks, as always, to Ruthie for her editing and assistance.
 E.Z.
 
 
 FINDING BETSY
 by E.Z. Riter
 June 2000
 A "Ruthie's Foursome" Story
 
 "Are you all right?" I asked, extending a hand to help her.
 
 "Yeah. Thanks," she said, looking around for the street toughs I
 drove off.
 
 She brushed off her clothes.  They looked unwashed and ragged
 around the edges, as did she.
 
 "You should be home at this hour," I said disapprovingly.
 
 Her pretty, full-lipped face was drawn and tight.
 
 "I don't have a home."
 
 "Why don't I buy you some coffee?" I offered.
 
 "Look, mister.  Thanks for helping me, but . . .  tell you what.
 I need money.  I'll give you a blowjob for twenty dollars."
 
 "How old are you?" I asked.
 
 "Old enough to give a damn good blowjob.  I'm eighteen, if you
 must know."
 
 "There's a coffee kiosk a few blocks from here.  Let's have
 coffee and maybe I'll take you up on your offer," I said.
 
 I started walking at a slow pace.  In a moment, she was beside
 me.
 
 "What's your name?" I asked.
 
 "Pearl.  Pearl Wisdom."
 
 "Mine's Howard Bloom."
 
 A horn-honk blocks away reverberated through the concrete
 canyons.  The click of our heels echoed in the ensuing silence.
 
 "So, Pearl, you're a hooker?"
 
 "I prefer the word whore.  It's more honest."
 
 "Been whoring long?"
 
 "Long enough."
 
 I heard a noise behind us.  The three toughs were following at a
 safe distance.  I hadn't frightened them.  I was six feet tall,
 but thin and angular.  They could easily take me.  It was my gun,
 bought and registered, that kept those rats at bay.  I got it
 after some thugs hospitalized me one sleepless night when I
 walked the streets.  These streets are mean.
 
 She scurried next to me and took my hand, squeezing it tightly.
 We walked faster and the thugs kept pace.  None too soon, we
 turned the corner.  The coffee kiosk was half a block away, near
 the entrance to a hotel.  The bright lights were welcome.  When I
 looked back, her attackers were gone.
 
 We sat on the bus bench to eat the coffee and doughnuts I
 purchased.  She tried to eat slowly, but in minutes, they were
 gone.
 
 "What do you charge for a fuck?" I asked.
 
 She hesitated.  I'd guessed she wasn't a real whore.  I'd spent
 some time with those.  She didn't have the toughness, the hard
 edge a professional whore quickly acquires.
 
 "A hundred."
 
 "Too much.  I can get laid for $50.  The blowjob price is a
 little high, too.  Fifteen dollars is the street rate."
 
 "Well," she said defensively, "I'm better than most."
 
 "It's a commodity business, Pearl."
 
 Something about Pearl reminded me of Cindy, my live-in lover for
 three years.  She'd been voluptuous before she decided to emulate
 Ally McBeal.  Her compulsion to be thin exacerbated a shrewish
 nature and she harped endlessly.  I was ready to end our
 relationship when I came home unexpectedly one day to find
 another man in my bed with her.  I threw out the skinny slut.
 
 I'd always been embarrassed by my thinness.  "Bony," my mother'd
 said.  When Cindy changed, she made nasty comments about my body,
 knowing they'd cut like a knife.  She saved her most acerbic
 comments for my cock.  "It's as skinny as the rest of you," she'd
 sneered.
 
 Since I'd thrown out Cindy, I'd thought about a new woman in my
 life.  Why God cursed me with a strong sex drive and an
 appearance that turned women off, I'll never know.  Some ironic
 heavenly joke, I guess.
 
 "Pearl, are you interested in making a deal?"
 
 "What do you have in mind?"
 
 "You don't have any place to live.  I've got a brownstone with
 two bedrooms.  You're a whore.  I'm a guy that likes sex."
 
 "Go on.  I'm listening."
 
 "I'll give you room and board if you cook and clean.  I'll pay
 for the sex, but I want a reduced rate."
 
 "How much?"
 
 "Ten dollars for a blowjob.  Twenty-five for a straight fuck."
 
 If I'd guessed correctly, she was a street waif.  A home and food
 were probably the best offer she'd had.
 
 "I don't know," she said.  "How long are we going to do this?"
 
 "A day or ten years.  Who knows?  You can leave any time or I can
 throw you out any time.  One thing you should know."
 
 "What?" she asked.
 
 I slipped the snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38 out of my pocket,
 opened the cylinder and clicked it closed.  Her eyes narrowed.
 
 "If you steal anything from me, I'll hunt you down."
 
 "I'm a whore, not a thief," she snapped.
 
 A cab sped past and screeched to a halt at the hotel.  Two drunks
 staggered out.  A cheap looking  woman appeared out of the
 darkness to proposition them.  She looked old and well used.
 
 Pearl watched the woman disappear into the darkness after the men
 rejected her.  She shivered.  She didn't look at me when she
 said, "I'd like to try it for a few days."
 
 "One more question.  What's your real name?"
 
 She hesitated, evaluating whether to trust me.
 
 "Betsy Powell," she said softly.
 
 I didn't want to chance the thugs.  We got a cab in front of the
 hotel and, in minutes, were at my home.
 
 I lived in an old, four-story brownstone on the east side.  I
 occupied the first and second floors and the basement.  I rented
 out the top two floors to a gay couple who were quiet and paid
 the rent on time.
 
 I opened the door, deactivated the alarm, and let Betsy slip past
 me before I secured the exterior.  She slowly turned in the
 middle of the room.
 
 "This is nice," she said.
 
 "Thanks.  Follow me."
 
 I led her to the kitchen and said, "Let me see your driver's
 license."
 
 "I don't have one."
 
 "ID Card?"
 
 "I don't have any identification."
 
 Ironic, isn't it?  I'd thought of capturing a girl.  New York was
 full of runaways, precious daughters abandoned to the street.
 I'd schemed about chaining one in the basement to use when I
 wanted.  Now one had dropped into my lap.  But real life isn't
 fantasy.  In my fantasy, the girl stayed because she wanted me.
 
 I started unbuttoning my shirt.
 
 "All right, Betsy.  House rules.  This place has an alarm system.
 I always leave it on. You can't go out without deactivating it."
 She nodded as she watched me undress.
 
 "Second rule.  You'll do what you're told when you're told.
 You'll be responsible for cleaning and cooking.  Can you cook?"
 
 "Pretty well," she said.
 
 "Glad to hear it," I replied.  I removed my shirt and laid it
 across the counter.
 
 "Why don't you start undressing?"
 
 She reddened and looked away.  With leaden hands, she reached for
 the first button of her blouse.  Strange behavior for a street
 whore.
 
 "Third rule.  If you have other customers, you can't bring them
 here and you can't tell them where you live."
 
 "How often do you want sex?" she asked pensively.
 
 "Once or twice a day."
 
 She shrugged.  "Maybe I won't need other customers."
 
 She turned her back to remove her tattered blouse and unfasten
 her bra.  When she turned around, she hid her breasts with her
 arms.
 
 "You have beautiful breasts," I said, and they were - massive,
 fleshy, in a light pink with large dusky rose areola and
 prominent nipples.
 
 "They're a curse," she muttered under her breath.
 
 When I started undoing my trousers, she started on her skirt.
 Like two children playing a stripping game, we discarded them at
 the same time.
 
 Betsy was plump.  Not fat.  In another age, she'd have been
 called voluptuous and painters would've spent hours reproducing
 her body on canvas.  Her thighs and her ass, like her breasts,
 were soft and inviting.  Her body language said she didn't like
 her body.  I sensed she'd suffered disparaging remarks, but she'd
 never hear them from me.  I liked voluptuous women.
 
 I yanked down my shorts and quickly sat down. Betsy was watching
 me, smiling gently.
 
 "You're embarrassed, too, aren't you?" she asked softly.
 
 Why lie? "Yes," I whispered.
 
 Her breasts jiggled as she knelt between my legs and wrapped her
 hand around my cock.
 
 "Have you got ten dollars?" she teased.
 
 "Yes," I said.
 
 She licked my cock head before burying it between pressured lips.
 She swallowed and her throat massaged the head. I groaned as she
 pulled him slowly out.
 
 "See.  Thin goes places thick can't," she said.
 
 She hadn't lied about her oral skills.  It was the best blowjob
 I'd ever had.  I only wish she'd kept her eyes open.  When she
 sat back after swallowing my cum, she looked embarrassed.
 
 "Fabulous," I mumbled.  "Where did you learn that?"
 
 "I had to learn," she said flatly.  She looked away and stood.
 "May I take a bath?"
 
 "Certainly.  There's a tub in my bathroom, but the second
 bedroom's in the basement.  There's only a shower down there."
 
 "A shower's fine."
 
 I showed her the room in the basement, gave her a bathrobe, and
 left her alone.  Soon I heard her in the kitchen.
 
 "Hungry?" I asked.
 
 Surprised, she squeaked and spun to face me, clutching the robe
 around her.  She looked younger with the makeup and grime flushed
 away.  I scrambled eggs and made toast, which she devoured. She
 was so sleepy I didn't have the heart to take her then.  I guided
 her downstairs and tucked her into bed.
 
 She was asleep when I left in the morning.  I wrote a list of
 instructions for her.  When I returned at one, she was watching
 The Cooking Channel.  The list had been completed.
 
 "Hi," she said.
 
 "Hi," I replied.  "I'm horny.  Follow me."
 
 She padded behind me to my bedroom on the second floor.  Sexless
 and perfunctory, she dropped the robe and lay down.
 
 "I don't have birth control," she said.
 
 "Good Lord, why not?"
 
 "I was on the pill, but I ran out."
 
 "Shit, and I wanted a fuck."
 
 "Want me to go buy some condoms?"
 
 "No.  Use your mouth."
 
 She showed no emotion as she again gave me magnificent oral sex.
 
 Fortunately, I own my own business and can take off when I wish.
 That afternoon, I bought condoms, took her to the clinic for a
 birth control pill prescription, and had it filled.
 
 "Where to now?" she asked as she trotted beside me.
 
 "Macy's for some new clothes for you," I answered.
 
 "Am I supposed to pay for them?" she asked suspiciously.
 
 "No.  Consider them a bonus."
 
 At Macy's, I first bought what I wanted her to wear at home,
 garter belts with stockings, sheer  underwear, and sexy lingerie.
 I particularly liked the French teddy in shocking pink.  I also
 purchased three dresses she selected to wear out of the house and
 odds and ends, including shoes and a few pieces of costume
 jewelry.
 
 She was giddy with happiness.  I saw a different side to her
 there.  A softer side, a younger side.  She was no more than a
 girl.  A girl frightened and alone on the streets on New York.
 Her defenses were down.
 
 Maybe mine were, too.  I felt protective of her.  I wanted to
 bring the light of happiness to her eyes.  I wanted her to... 
 Shit!  That's stupid of me.  That's the way I felt about Cindy,
 too.
 
 We were back home standing in the hall.  She was laden with
 packages.  Her face was soft, her eyes gentle, when she said,
 "Thank you, Mr. Bloom."
 
 For an instant, I hoped, but...  "Come to my bedroom when
 you've put those things away," I said.
 
 I hate condoms, maybe because I use them every time I fuck.
 One distinct advantage of having a relationship with only one
 person is knowing you're both free from disease.  When Cindy
 started fucking around, condoms became a necessity.  With whores,
 they were more so.  We'd had Betsy tested this morning, but the
 results wouldn't be back for three days.
 
 She was on her back watching me as I unwrapped the condom.
 
 "What's wrong?" I asked.
 
 "Nothing," she said very softly.
 
 "Yes, there is.  I can read it in your face."  My voice was
 strident.
 
 "Nothing's wrong," she replied and looked away.
 
 I stopped.  One thing was certain.  She wasn't a whore.  They
 were disinterested, rudely bored as you prepared to use their
 body.  Betsy looked apprehensive.  Was I that ugly?
 
 "Do you have a problem with me?" I asked with tight-throated
 defensiveness.
 
 "No, Mr. Bloom," she replied.
 
 "Then what the hell's wrong?  I'm paying you fairly for this and
 I expect a good fuck."
 
 "Why are you angry with me?" she asked.  Her hands were folded
 defensively over her breasts. Tears welled and her lip quivered.
 
 "I'm not interested anymore," I said venomously.  "Get out of my
 room!"
 
 Clutching the robe over her breasts, she ran from the room.
 
 After that time, our interaction was limited.  She prepared the
 meals and it was obvious she was working hard to do her best.
 The house was spotless.  But conversation was perfunctory and
 meaningless.
 
 Day followed night and the routine didn't vary.  We'd sit at the
 dining table not looking at each other except for furtive glances
 and not speaking except for clipped exchanges. We didn't touch
 except for twice daily oral servicing.
 
 On the eighth day, only one place was set at the table.  She
 served my food and sat in what had become her chair.
 
 "You're not eating?" I asked.
 
 "No, Mr. Bloom.  I'd like to leave tonight...   if you'll let
 me."
 
 "Let you?"
 
 "I'm a prisoner here."  Her voice quivered.  Tears slipped down
 her cheeks.
 
 "No, you're not.  You can leave anytime."
 
 "You set the alarm.  I can't leave."
 
 My mouth dropped open.  Consciously, I hadn't thought of that.
 
 "I didn't mean to trap you," I replied, but I wondered if
 subconsciously I had.
 
 "You didn't?" she asked hopefully.
 
 "No, I didn't.  If you want to leave, you can.  I owe you one
 hundred and fifty dollars."
 
 "I don't want your money, Mr. Bloom."
 
 "Why not?  You've earned it."
 
 She wrapped her arms around herself and tears trickled down her
 face.
 
 "Where will you go?" I asked.
 
 "I don't know."
 
 "Why don't you go home?"
 
 "I told you.  I don't have a home."
 
 "But you must have lived somewhere before you were on the street.
 Where's that?"
 
 "That's his home."
 
 Suddenly, her situation was clear to me.
 
 "Your father?"
 
 "Stepfather."
 
 "That's why you had to learn to give blowjobs.  To keep from
 being raped."
 
 "It didn't work," she sobbed.
 
 I wanted to comfort her, but she jerked away.  Forcibly, I held
 her for the brief moment until she collapsed against me in abject
 sorrow.  We held onto each for dear life.  I cried with her.
 Two wounded birds finding solace in each other.
 
 I awakened in the morning with her curled next to me on my bed.
 We were both dressed under the comforter I'd pulled over us.
 
 I didn't work that day or the next.  I spent those precious hours
 cocooned with her.  We talked.  We touched.  We cried.  We
 learned each other as we opened our hearts and minds to the risks
 of being hurt and the ecstacy of not being.
 
 The following morning when I left, she waved goodbye to me at the
 door.  There was a spring in my step and I whistled as I wove my
 way through the sidewalk crowds.
 
 Each day was better than the one before.  Meals were animated
 joys of sharing.  Evenings afterwards were bondings of mind and
 heart. We slept together every night, but we didn't have sex, not
 even oral sex.
 
 In the time since we razed the walls of our emotional prisons
 with a torrent of tears, I'd fallen in love with her.
 
 She met me at the door one afternoon wearing one of the simple
 dresses from Macy's.  Her eyes were bright and shining.  She wore
 no makeup.  Her arms were around my waist, her breasts against my
 chest, as she stood on tiptoes to kiss me.  Someone walking by
 whistled at us.
 
 "I want you," I said, unable to contain it any longer.
 
 "I want you, too," she murmured.
 
 On opposite sides of my bed, we watched each other undress.  She
 lay down beside me.
 
 This is the way it should be, I thought.  I can see the love in
 her face, the light in her eyes.  She wants me.  Me!
 
 "Make love to me, Howie," she whispered.
 
 The End
 
 
 Please!  Give me your comments!
 
 E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com
 
 