The Life of a Hoosier Farm Girl Ch. 08

I guess he had always known I was a slut. I had tried not to be one once I had taken up with Ray, and until that night, I was succeeded. But I am what I am. He had known from the get-go I was a slut, just from the Clovis videos alone.

I felt I had no moral authority, given all the sex I had given away in Indiana. Not to mention the sex I gave away in Washington, DC, with Diego and Sam. The worst, and it will always be the worst, was "letting" Mike ensnare me within the torture arena.

But that was all before Ray. Since meeting Ray I had been a good girl. I had been a faithful partner. Still, we decided we were both okay, even after the swapping and the sexual round robin.

I even think Ray enjoyed helping me to fall from my hard-won state of grace. I fell back into the gutter. I fell head first.

******************

Billie Jean had mostly recovered, and Ray and I had both her and Chloe over for dinner. It had been six months since those horrific events at the hands, machines and knives of those monsters. I had the scar under my left boob to remind me. I checked on it every morning in the mirror.

Ray had fun playing with it when we were naked in bed, now that it had healed. I found it a bit gross, but he seemed to be aroused by this memory of my torture and multiple rapes. I myself did not consider it erotic. Not at all. But Ray would always give me his 'rough and ready' fucks if I let him play with my scar, which of course was just under my left boob.

Naked, my boob would hang in such a way that it covered all but a small corner of the scar. Ray delighted in lifting up my boob to examine the entire scar. He wanted me to associate arousal with the scar so he tried all sorts of things to achieve that. The closest he came was inserting a vibrating dildo inside me as he examined the scar.

One time his efforts achieved remarkable success. He got to me. My knees buckled and I sank onto the bed. He replaced the dildo with his own warm, pulsating cock, and he relieved my arousal, letting me cum after his excessive teasing. I let him play his little games. After all, I benefited erotically. Still, they grossed me out.

Back to the dinner: We opened one of our good bottles of red wine, a nice French Bordeaux. I made roast leg of lamb, with roast potatoes and sautéed mixed vegetables. Ray had bought a chocolate mousse at a French bakery for dessert. After dinner, all of us except Billie Jean sipped cognac. It was a delightful evening.

After the cognac, Billie Jean revealed she had brought small chocolates from a good chocolate house. As she passed them around she said, "I want revenge." We all knew what she meant.

I said, "They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Six months is cold enough. I'm in."

Chloe said, "I'm in all the way. Let's nail the bastards."

We all agreed that Alex, Harold, and Adam were small fry. Mike's role was to lure in the innocent girls like Chloe and me. Billie Jean still could not believe she thought Al would be a sugar daddy. What a mistake! The only thing we needed was a plan.

That evening nobody had a good idea how to deceive and to trap those bastards. But we all agreed to think about it and to come up with a plan. We thought about our skill sets. I was a nurse. Chloe was an artist. Ray was a computer scientist.

That left Billie Jean. She was an interior designer. Her main skill for any plan we were to come up with would have to be in seduction. She could seduce any man, anywhere, any time, I'm sure. Ray agreed. Billie Jean was special. She had escaped, the first woman we knew of ever to escape from Al's deadly chamber of torture, rape, and death. While she did escape, she escaped naked, terrorized, and bleeding to death. She collapsed in an alley, and some good Samaritan found her and called 911, which is the only reason she is alive today.

Billie Jean told us the story of her escape. Al had become careless. Late at night, when he was the only one home, he decided he wanted to rape Billie Jean again. She convinced him she enjoyed his rapes, and asked to be released from her bondage so that she could truly please him. Cocky with confidence, he released her from her shackles. She used the toilet, found some perfume left in the medicine cabinet by a past victim, and she applied it. She came back wrapped in a towel.

She seduced him, using the towel as a foil. After she had blown him and swallowed his load, she played the woman hostess role and went to the kitchen and prepared scrambled eggs and toasts for a late night snack. She brought it to him wearing the towel.

She knew he had a bondage fetish, and she somehow correctly inferred that while he was a bit of a control freak and felt that he had to maintain control, he secretly wanted sex while bound himself. He just never trusted anyone enough to let himself be bound.

Billie Jean convinced him to be bound, but in ways that were easy to undo, to help to reduce his anxiety and paranoia. Once he was bound, Billie Jean put some music on his sound system. She used a mop, a broom, and her towel to do a sexy dance for him; a kind of Folies Bergère fan dance type of show.

It's not easy to do a fan dance with a mop, a broom, and a towel, but Billie Jean has talent coming out of her ears. She was doing all this while bleeding from the slash wound under her left breast. She got blood all over the floor. Adolphus got a raging erection watching her. She climbed on top of him, bleeding blood onto him as she eased down onto his cock.

Her bleeding on him seemed to arouse him in the extreme. She fucked him tenderly, lovingly. It was all she could manage as the strength seeped out of her luscious body. She moaned loudly to convince him of her pleasure. She actually did enjoy the sex, which is hard to imagine since she was dying by his hand as she fucked him. She collapsed on top of him and lost consciousness after he shot his seed into her.

Fortune smiled on Billie Jean, as she awoke from her stupor to find Adolphus still bound and asleep beneath her. His cum had drained somewhat from her onto his legs. He was a mess, covered with her blood and his cum. She got up and still naked she staggered out of the apartment and ran, naked, into the alley, where she collapsed. Unconscious, naked, and bleeding, she lay there. A man discovered her and raped her naked body. She was too weak to speak, let alone to scream. She remembered thinking, "What a way to die. God must hate me."

But she was saved by an early morning shop keeper. He came into the alley from the back of his store in order to throw out some garbage left over from the day before. She heard his footsteps and managed weakly to scream two words: "Help Me!" This time she was lucky: the shopkeeper heard her, found her, and he called 911. The ambulance and hospital did the rest, and now she is alive and well.

Once Billie Jean was done recounting her horror story, she again announced she wanted revenge. Nobody had a clue as to how to use our particular basket of skills to hatch a plan for revenge. The will was there, just not yet a plan. "Patience," I counseled. "A plan will come."

It came to me one day while I was on the subway. It was a true brainstorm. I sat there fleshing out the details, and without realizing it, it was an hour later. I had inadvertently missed my stop and even stayed on the subway to the end of the line, I was so lost in thought. I was at Coney Island. I exited the train to continue my thoughts. I was so excited! I found a place selling coffee and sat on a bench drinking it, trying to order all of my cascading thoughts.

I sighed audibly when I had the plan all worked out. It was a doozy. I was so excited I barely noticed that my forehead was tingling, the aura of a relapse from my meds. These were the meds I took for my depression back in Indiana, after my husband was killed in a bar fight. They had the side effects of removing most of my sexual inhibitions, suppressing my super-ego and letting my id run free, giving me a green light to fulfill my most primal sexual desires.

A man had sat down next to me and I had not even noticed. He said, "That was quite a sigh. You okay, miss?"

My pussy was getting wet just from his masculine voice. I shocked myself when I heard myself saying, "Thank you sir. I'm fine, just enjoying the view of the ocean. It's romantic, don't you think?"

The man agreed, and we got to talking. He was nice, and genuinely interested in me. We talked for quite a while, it must have been for well over 30 minutes. He remarked at one point how he thought I was beautiful. I have a weakness for flattery, especially as it relates to my appearance. Okay: I admit it. I'm vain.

I checked him out for the first time. "You're quite good looking yourself, mister," I said.

"Ah," he began. "But your beauty is the type that dreams are made of. When I was younger I used to fantasize about meeting a beautiful woman at the beach, wearing a bikini, and losing myself in her eyes. Now here you are, looking at me, and your eyes have the beauty men fight wars over."

Okay, I thought. This man is corny. It's hokey. Nevertheless, I loved it. I ate it up.

"You have a good pickup line," I said.

"Thank you," he said. "Is it working?"

I giggled. "Yes, in fact I guess that it is," I replied, and I giggled a little more.

"I know we just met, but I would love your permission to kiss you. Your lips have mesmerized me."

We kissed. He kissed well, something that is important to me. I became aroused. I knew it was the meds controlling me, but I did not care. I knew my not caring was also due to the meds. I did not care about my not caring. I decided not to take this further, and not to go to the third level of not caring about not caring about not caring.

He put his arms around me as we kissed. He raised my right leg, putting it over his in such a way that his knee was up against my panties, as my skirt got bunched up in the process.

He rubbed his knee against my crotch, and I began to get very wet. "You're making me wet down there. Your pants will get soiled," I said.

"Let's see," he said. He removed his leg, pushed up my skirt some more, and looked at my panties. Doubtless he saw the words "Grab This" written on the part of the panties that covered my vagina. "Not a Trump fan, I guess," he said.

I did not reply, since if I did I would have given away how turned on I was. I knew my voice would be breathy. He said, "It's hard to tell visually if you are sufficiently wet that my pants are in danger. I'll have to touch you."

He touched me so quickly as he said that, that I had no time to protest or to stop him. There I was sitting on a bench on the Coney Island boardwalk facing the ocean, with my skirt pushed up and with this man now fingering me, his hand inside my 'Grab This' panties.

I began to moan as he fingered me. I knew I was engaging in risky behavior, but I was so turned on that my rational brain seemed to shut down.

I managed to say, finally, "It's too bad I'm involved with someone, because if not, well...." And I left it hanging.

"Come with me," he said. This man, whom I guess was around 40 to 45 years old, told me his name was Sebastian (like the saint, I thought to myself). He led me to a set of stairs that led to the beach. We walked together on the deserted beach, holding hands. I felt disloyal to Ray, but we had never taken any vows of loyalty to each other.

I remembered how enthusiastically Ray had fucked both Marcia and her 19-year-old daughter Victoria right in front of me. My desire to be loyal to him ebbed with those thoughts.

He led me under the boardwalk. He began to kiss me. I melted. He got me naked down to my panties, and he was fingering me when I said, "Please stop, Sebastian. This is not me, it's the meds I'm on. I don't want to be a slut again. Tell you what: come to dinner tomorrow and meet my partner Ray. I'll invite over two girlfriends and maybe another guy, and who knows what will happen?" I winked meaningfully.

Sebastian pulled down my panties. I was now naked under the boardwalk. "How about now and again at your dinner?" he asked. He had two fingers inside me, pumping in and out, as he said it. My breathing was already heavy, and my boobs were producing small beads of sweat. I was way too aroused for my own good. In a huge triumph of will over the meds, I said, "No. No, Sebastian. Forget the whole thing. Stop now, please?" He didn't stop. I upped the ante: "You must stop, Sebastian! Stop or I'll kick you in the balls!"

He did not stop. I fell down, too aroused to remain standing. He knew I would never actually kick him in the balls. That was just talk. He lay me down. M y head was on the sand. He spread my legs. Thank God as he was about to enter me, something at that moment I welcomed much too eagerly, I saw a rat staring at us, inches from my face, and baring its teeth. I screamed. Sebastian lost his erection, but I did not even know that because I ran out onto the beach. I was naked, and screaming. That was the last I saw of Sebastian.

I was too scared of the rat to go back in and find my clothes. People were looking at me. I looked to be, and was, scared, naked, and trembling. I don't know, but I suspect they thought someone had been trying to rape me. A man went underneath the boardwalk and fetched my clothes. I put them on while several Samaritans (or perhaps voyeurs, or perhaps both at the same time) watched. They clothed me even as the apocryphal Samaritan of ancient times clothed the beaten and half dead victim of thieves whom he found on the road.

I found my purse and went back for the long subway ride back to Manhattan. I was ashamed of myself and grateful for the presence of the rat. He had saved whatever virtue I could still claim, which was precious little. Who knew a rat could provide such a service? I would never hate rats again.

I went over my plan again on the train back to Manhattan. I had received word that my brother was coming to town, and that was what had inspired my plan. I sent texts to Ray, Chloe, and Billie Jean asking for a communal dinner at our place (Ray's and mine) this evening to go over the plan. I got excited replies from both Billie Jean and Chloe. Ray never replies when he is at work; it's not allowed. But he was in; of that, I was sure.

I do not have Al's cell phone number, but I have Mike's, from when I thought we were dating. In reality, only I thought Mike and I had been dating. Mike knew of course that he was just recruiting me to be another of Al's St. Sebastian victims. He was quite successful, even if Chloe and I both managed to escape.

Of course, Chloe and I did not escape until after I was raped by five different men (Mike, Al, Adam, Harry, and Alex), cut badly just below my left breast, suspended hanging and bleeding out, and had my portrait painted as if I were a modern-day St. Sebastian. What a sadistic, twisted person Al was!

Chloe escaped the St. Sebastian treatment only because it took me too long to die. She would replace me once I were dead and my body carted off to be weighted and sunk in the East River. When we escaped, I averted death, and Chloe averted the horrible torture I had suffered, as well as her own probable death.

It was likely Billie Jean had Al's cell phone. Ray would use his computer skills, and his extensive contacts in the high-tech world, to trace the movements of the two men. Billie Jean would seduce someone who worked at one of the high-end restaurants that Mike and Al used to seduce their future victims. We would need to get her naked, so that Chloe could paint a St. Sebastian portrait of her. That was the tricky part.

I am not even bisexual (or so I think), but when Billie Jean, and then ever more so when Chloe had sex with me, I nearly lost my mind. Sex with each of them was better than with any man. But we could not count on the new target even suspecting such a thing, and chances are if she were dating Mike or Al, she would be into men. We had a man, Ray, but I was not sure I wanted him to be assigned to seduce another woman. So that was a problem.

I had a solution, but everyone would have to agree. The solution was that I would find an irresistible man, seduce him, and promise him sex with Chloe, Billie Jean, and myself if he could bring us the new victim naked. He could invite friends, too, in case he did not want to take on three women at once, plus the victim. That's a lot for any one man, no matter how virile. You can see why I need everyone (including Ray, who after all could be jealous) to agree!

In reality, however, Billie Jean talked me out of involving Ray, or even Chloe in this part. Promising him Billie Jean and me at the same time was plenty. Ray would assume Billie Jean did it all by herself, and in fact maybe she could? We decided she would find and seduce the man, and I would be available if need be.

That freed up Chloe and me to seduce someone on the coop board of the Park Avenue building that housed Mike and Al. This part was tricky. I had done some research on Al. He was a big time capitalist in a variety of scurrilous ways. He was a modern-day gun runner, supplying all sorts of weapons to anyone in the world with money. He got the weapons from self-storage units stocked with stolen weapons. The weapons were stolen from military warehouses in the south.

Now you may ask how I discovered these facts. After all, that kind of information is not available via a casual Google search. Indeed, there was no information available via a Google search for me to conclude he was up to stuff like that.

This is where it helps to be a woman. I asked Ray who could help me get the goods on Al. He said he would ask around. He went to Yale, and he had told me that some of his friends in college had taken jobs with the CIA and the NSA after graduation. Joining the CIA was something of a tradition among men who had joined the Yale 'secret society' known as Skull and Bones. They were all men, of course. Men are easy.

The man in the CIA was Henry Pink III. Really, that's his name. Everyone calls him Hank . Ray set up a meeting with him and me when he came to NY. He was, of course, staying at the Yale Club, near Grand Central Station. We met for drinks at 6pm at the bar of the club (he had to let me inside, as his guest).

I dressed conservatively, guessing (correctly, as it turned out) that the Yale Club runs to the stodgy side of town. I began by appealing to his friendship with Ray in order to get him to help us. He said he would not be able to do anything remotely like what I was asking. I sensed that perhaps he could do it, but it was risky, and he did not want to risk anything for Ray's girlfriend of the moment.

He did not say anything like that, but he made it clear what he was thinking. I had to go to Plan B. I had hoped to avoid Plan B, but it seemed I had no choice. I needed to be sexy for Plan B, and I was not dressed in a sexy way, since we were at the Yale Club.

But it's not always how one dresses; it's also how one behaves. I began to flirt shamelessly with him. I hung on his every word. I bat my eyes, told him how smart he was, and looked at him adoringly. I ran my tongue along my upper lip, a hyper suggestive tic I pretended to have.

In short, I pretended to let him sweep me off my feet. I aroused his sexual interest with my behavior, and he asked me if I were free for dinner. I was. He took me to a little restaurant in Tribeca which has French cuisine and is super romantic. It was not cheap, either. The wine was so good we polished off a bottle, just the two of us.

As dinner ended, I told him I'd take a cab home and thanked him profusely. He invited me back to the Yale Club to taste with him the special cognac they have there. I knew of course, as any girl would, that his attempt to get me back to the Yale Club, where he was staying, had nothing to do with drinking cognac.