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Lakewood Avenue - Conclusion

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Tester86
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Lakewood Avenue - Conclusion

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Lakewood Avenue 3
Convicts

The water was icy, but Theresa didn’t care. It had been ten days since she’d had a shower. Every night after working the fields she would be locked in her cell. There she would use the sink to wash herself as best she could, cupping water in her hand and splashing it under her arms, under her chin, between her legs. It helped a bit. The sink had been far too small for her to wash her hair, though she had tried. The water from the sink had been cold, the water now was less than a degree from becoming an iceberg. It hardly mattered, she needed a shower and a cold one was better than lying in her lumpy cot smelling the dirt of the field and her own, rancid sweat. No, an arctic shower was better than no shower at all, even if the reason for that shower wasn’t something she was looking forward to.

Today was the first day she’d be working at Convicts.

She knew all about it. The girls talked. Not out in the fields. The gags made sure of that, but at night, when the guards were asleep, and the prison was filled with lonely women in lonelier cells. After lights out – ten o’clock, on the dot – most of the prisoners just ruminated in silence until sleep overtook them. After a long day of back breaking labor, it never took too long. Some women masturbated, some did not. Some women gossiped, reaching out with quiet whispers for some sort of human interaction. Anything to feel normal. The women whispered about their cosmopolitan lives.

Tracy learned about some of the women. There was a neurosurgeon two cells down that cried almost continually the first three days she was there. Tracy understood. Her tears had been more muted, but they had come. Now she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to cry again. Crying had no place here. The only thing it did was make the guards laugh. “She’ll break soon,” was a common enough refrain to the desperate sobbing of the prisoners.
And that was what the fields were all about. They were there to break the women. To turn strong, upstanding women, used to being in power, to creatures that were begging to debase themselves. “Look how far you’ve fallen,” Tracy recalled the way that that long-ago actress had whimpered those words to that Barbara Walters Wannabe. “Weren’t you an important actress? Now what, you’ll do anything to suck my dick.”

“And did you?”

The actress, her face a crimson mask of shame had been unable to voice a response. The audience had gasped when that famous actress, known for crushing the box office, had simply nodded, hating herself and hating the whispered slurs she’d heard coming from the onlookers. She’d been called a whore, a harlot, a slut, and so many other things, and the worst part, the most degrading, was that they were all true. She hadn’t had to sleep her way to box office stardom. No, her talent did that. But she wound up on her back all the same, anything to get away from standing in a crowded field on the side of Lakewood Avenue, her legs straight, bent at the waist, pulling cotton from its plant one tuft at a time.

Theresa Martin knew what that was like. She had been broken after six days. In the time it took God to create all of everything, Theresa had been brought down from a respected justice of the state Supreme Court to a lowly strumpet begging to strip off her clothes for money and to drop to her knees and take any man into her mouth, or if he wanted more, to fall onto her back and spread her legs wide, offering everything she had. The thought of it was repulsive, but it had to be better than working her fingers into gnarled knots that took hours of massaging to ease the pain. Or suffering with a back that ached so much that she had briefly pondered if being paralyzed and in a wheelchair was better because then her back wouldn’t hurt so much. Nobody should have to feel such impossibly horrible pain.

And she did beg.

Just as Carol had.

Theresa had limped to Gordon, stepping over four rows of white cotton. She dropped to her knees and spread her legs, aping Carol, “Please,” she pleaded, “please let me work the club. I’m begging you. Please.” The tears that fell were the most honest ones she had ever shed.

Gordon had simply nodded. “I’ll let the Sherriff know.” He grinned. “Sheila’s got something special cooked up for ya’.”

She was sent back to the fields. Muscles sore. Fingers on fire. Back a knotted agony. At the end of the day she’d been ten pounds light and Gordon’s paddle only added to her misery.

They kept her in the fields for four more days. Just to make her suffer. Just to make sure she would never want to change her mind.

***
“Turn around.”

Theresa spun around and waited as Duane locked her hands behind her back. She was still dripping wet. The tiled floor was slick under her naked feet. He didn’t give her a towel; clothing was denied her. She was cuffed, naked, wet, and shivering and led from the shower, down the hallway, passing the room where she’d been shaved so long ago. Duane led her out the side door. There was a limo waiting there with black, tinted windows. The back door opened. “Get in,” Duane said.

A voice from within uttered the same thing. “Get in.”

Theresa inched forward. Sheila was sitting in the back of the limo, a glass of champagne in her hand. She stood quite the contrast to the cold, naked prisoner. Sheila was wearing a tiny black dress with a slit in both sides that showed she wasn’t wearing panties. The front of the dress was scooped low, revealing more of her breasts than it hid.

Duane gave Theresa a mild nudge, pushing her towards the waiting limo.

The door hanging open made Theresa think of the black maw of a giant whale about to swallow her whole. She had been shivering before, now she was trembling for a new set or reasons. What did Sheila have planned? Gordon had said that Sheila had something special arranged. Seeing Sheila now terrified her in a way she had not expected. She felt like a prisoner, not sent to work the harsh, heated fields, or sent to strip off her clothes. No, she felt like she was being led up a small flight of creaky steps to a guillotine.

“Get in,” Duane repeated.

Sheila took a sip of her bubbly. She was grinning, showing a mouthful of sparkling, predatory teeth. Theresa watched as Sheila grabbed another glass and poured golden champagne into it. The invitation was clear.

Ducking, Theresa got into the limo. Duane shut the door, where it immediately locked with an eerily loud click.

“Here,” Sheila said. “Have a sip.” She held the glass to Theresa’s lips and tilted it up, high, higher, higher still. Theresa swallowed and kept swallowing as Sheila emptied the glass. Some champagne spilled from Theresa’s mouth to trickle down her chin and fall to her naked breasts.

Grinning even larger, Sheila bent forward to lick a wet nipple.

Theresa pulled away but had nowhere to go. She was trapped in the limo – locked in, she reminded herself – with her hands cuffed behind her back. As she shifted backwards, she first felt the sharp steel of the cuffs digging into her wrists, then she felt Sheila’s hands on the back of her neck, pulling her forward into a hungry, unwelcome kiss. She tasted the champagne, cool in her mouth, warm in Sheila’s. She tasted Sheila’s lipstick, too, at once missing lipstick and hating it just a bit.

Sheila, still smiling, released her grip on Theresa’s throat. “Nice.”

Theresa wanted to cover herself, but with her hands shackled she was helpless to do so. She shifted as best she could, turning a bit to the side.

Sheila laughed. “There’s nowhere to go,” she said. Sheila refilled her champagne glass. “I’d offer you some more, but I want you to experience everything. I don’t want it muted by alcohol.”

Theresa recalled Gordon, and the glee in his words. “What’s going to happen?”

Sheila laughed again, louder this time. “Oh, I loved it. You look terrified.”

Did she? She thought maybe it was true. She wasn’t prepared for what was coming, and that was just the part she knew about. She was going to be a stripper. And more. She knew it was going to be worse than that, but she had a hard time admitting it to herself. She was going to sell herself for money. She would be given a new quota, money instead of cotton, but what did that matter? She’d sold herself when she made the deal to leave the hateful fields. The work that left her sweaty and sore each night, longing for any respite from the pain in her back, her fingers, her heated and sunburned skin. And her ass, punished each evening by a punctuating point about earning her keep, and doing what was demanded of her by “her betters.” That was the worst of it, the degrading comments that insisted she was worthless. She wasn’t a judge, not any longer. She was a convict, working the fields, being beaten with words and whips until the only conclusion she had made was that it had to be true. She deserved this. Why else would she be there?

Sheila took a sip of her champagne. “I’m looking forward to this.”

Theresa repeated her question.

Still smiling, Sheila ignored her again. Instead she asked, “what was it like? Being strapped to the bench? Was it exciting?”

Theresa eyed her suspiciously. “It was humiliating,” she admitted.

“Tell me.” Sheila shifted closer to Theresa, setting her hand on Theresa’s knee. “Was it shameful?” She dragged the word out for four or five long seconds. “It had to be.”

Theresa remained mute until Sheila reached up and grabbed a nipple. She started twisting. Theresa struggled against the pain, but each movement made her nipple hurt even more. “Stop,” she begged. God, she thought, hating herself just a little bit. How easy it is for me to beg now. Where was the strong woman on the short list to be a Supreme Court Justice?

“Tell me what I want to know.”

“Okay. Okay. Just please. Stop.”

Sheila gave another twist before releasing the nipple she’d so recently licked. “Tell me everything.”

Theresa gave a deep sigh before repeating everything that had happened. Every time she started to slow down, Sheila would reach out and twist a nipple, making her start anew. She left nothing out. She talked about how it felt to have her dignity robbed from here one piece of clothing at a time. She repeated the same words that famous actress had uttered about wanting to close her legs, to hide what was open and available to the world. She was blushing furiously as she recalled how it felt to have countless fingers probing her only to wipe their hands clean on her thighs, her stomach, or her face.

At the end, Theresa was struggling to hold back tears. They didn’t fall but they wanted to. Maybe there was a bit of strength left in her. She wasn’t defiant, no, she wasn’t that powerful, but she was able to swallow the lump in her throat and keep her eyes dry. If it was a victory it was a minor one, but it was the first one she’d had since the Sherriff had forced her to strip off her clothing, revealing everything to everyone.

“God,” Sheila said, her voice now a husky growl. “That had to be embarrassing.”

“I can’t imagine anything more humiliating,” Theresa replied, her eyes now wet but shut as if that could blot out the memory of stripping off her clothes, folding them neatly, and putting them in the cardboard box with the damning white label, marking the box as hers. Naming something gave it power.

“You can’t?”

The throatiness in Sheila’s voice was replaced with something Theresa couldn’t quite place. There was a timbre there that implied amusement and something else. Something sinister. She kept her eyes locked on Sheila. Sheila was smiling at her, her eyes wide with mirth. Once again, Theresa recalled how often she’d been told that Sheila had something planned. Suddenly, she was feeling a bit more nervous. “What did you do?”

In response, Sheila took another sip of her champagne.

“What did you do?”

Instead of answering, Sheila said, “we’re here.”

Theresa looked out the window, seeing Convicts for the first time. The sign above the building read Convicts with the “C” being made of an open handcuff shackle and the “O” made of the other shackle, this time the angry metal clasped shut. The rest of the letters looked like there were made of rope. A lariat encircled the sign. To Theresa it looked like the gaudy sign of a steakhouse deep in the heart of Texas or that of a rodeo. Only the twin cuffs of the handcuffs marred the illusion.

The building was larger than she suspected. It was well lit, both the building and the parking lot. They weren’t trying to hide what it was; the building begged for attention. There was a bouncer at the front door. Was he there to keep people out or the women working inside in? The thought made her tremble slightly. A matted carpet rolled out from the front door. It had been red once, Theresa saw, the part closest to the door still held a darker hue, but the southern sun had long ago caused the carpet to fade to a muted, radioactive pink.

“No,” Theresa whimpered, causing Sheila to laugh so hard that she dropped her glass of champagne.

There was a sandwich board standing at the entrance to the club. Seeing it made her blush, not just her face but her chest, her spine. She trembled at what the words implied. She was whimpering now. She couldn’t speak if she wanted to, her throat had clamped shut. Suddenly Theresa thought she was going to piss herself. Her eyes remained glued to the twin pieces of wood, folded in half, the same words written on both sides in neon orange lettering.

State Supreme Court Judge Theresa Martin
Makes her Convicts Debut
Come meet her and her friends!

Underneath the final word was the emoji of a smiling face with a lecherous grin on its yellow face. She stared at that final word. What did they mean? My friends? She had friends at work, she had friends from Rhode Island where she grew up. There wasn’t anyone that she wanted to know that she’d been arrested on make believe charges and there was absolutely no one that she wanted to see as she pranced around wearing nothing but a fake Hollywood smile. She whimpered again causing Sheila to laugh even louder. “Do you like my surprise?” Sheila asked. “You’re extremely popular. You should see your Facebook page. I think you received at least forty positive RSVP’s.”

Theresa’s mouth gaped. It had to be a lie. Please, God, please. She was praying now, staring at the sign advertising her friends were coming, people that she respected and worse, people that respected her. How could she look them in the eye tonight? How could she look them in the eye ever again? Theresa felt her whole life crumbling around her, like the old, worn-down rock walls that had marked the entrance off State Road 292. How could she ever exhume the pieces of her life that were crumbling away, piece by piece. It was too much. She whimpered again.

The limousine stopped, perfectly aligned with that faded pink carpet. Her prayers went unanswered.

Sheila helped Theresa from the limo. Sheila was smiling even larger than that mocking emoji plastered on the sandwich board outside announcing not only Theresa’s name but the promise of meeting her friends.

Music reached her ears. It was loud and upbeat. If she had been thinking clearly she might have recognized the song but she wasn’t thinking about the music, she wasn’t thinking about the leering gaze the bouncer was giving her, she wasn’t thinking about Sheila and how she could feel Sheila’s hand caressing the small of her back, guiding her like a jockey steers a stallion. She was thinking of that last, hateful word: friends! It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right and it was too much. Theresa bucked, forcing Sheila to push her a little harder. The bouncer, still grinning, rubbed the front of his jeans. “Can’t wait to take her for a ride,” the bouncer said.

“You always say that Dante.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You always say that, too.”

Both Dante and Sheila laughed but Theresa wasn’t laughing. She tried to pull away from Sheila, but Shelia’s grip was too strong. Sheila pushed her forward. Theresa’s feet scraped along the faded carpet. They felt leaden, like the concrete sneakers intimated in old-fashioned gangster movies, the kind that weighed you down, sending you sinking to the bottom of the Hudson or East Rivers. Her mouth had gone dry, an arid desert. Her whimpers became lower, more primal. She thought of running, but Sheila’s grip and the intense, focused gaze of Dante told her that was impossible. Besides, where could she run? She was naked with her hands cuffed behind her back. She wouldn’t get five feet.

“Let’s get you inside, your honor,” Sheila said, mocking her with her honorarium. It was the first time she’d heard it that warm, Friday afternoon. It wouldn’t be the last.

***

The clothes she wore were ill-fitting. Why not? They were the tattered hand me downs from countless other women that had worked Convicts, not the fancy, tailored suits she was used to wearing. The clothes that filled the backstage dressing room were donated by members of the town who fueled their own fantasies by buying trashy costumes or revealing lingerie. Other outfits were stolen from cardboard boxes adorned with little white labels.

Theresa was wearing a purple plaid skirt that barely covered her ass, a pair of skimpy panties that were at least two sizes two small and a mans buttoned down shirt tied at her stomach. Beneath the shirt she wore a matching bra that was so tight that it dug into her shoulders. Her hair was pulled into twin ponytails. She looked like an overgrown schoolgirl. And she hated it.

Loud, raucous music was strumming through the club. When the music dipped to the next song it would be her turn. She had been told what to do and then she’d been given a new quota. Instead of cotton it was dollars, and the number was staggeringly high. She’d never make that money squatting and spreading for a dollar a pop. No, the number was meant to get her on her knees or on her back.

Theresa was trembling. Behind her, another woman, a CEO from Connecticut was redoing her mascara; her tears had washed it away. “The older women, the ones who’ve been here a while say it gets easier,” the woman said, casting a glance to Theresa in her mirror. “I don’t think that’s true.”

She choked back a sob and went back to fixing her face.

It if was meant to be a pep talk, it was horrible.

Theresa waited for her debut. Entering the club, she had been disheartened to see how full it was. She had glanced around and hadn’t seen anyone she had known. Were they out there now? Was that why they put her last in the lineup? To give her friends time to arrive? She prayed that Sheila had been bluffing but knew in her heart that her humiliation was about to escalate. She’d said she couldn’t imagine anything more humiliating that her strip search and cavity search. How foolish she had been. Stripping for stranger was far simpler than stripping for those you knew. Those that respected you.

The music faded. Overhead Theresa heard, “now, put your hands together for our very own state Supreme Court Justice, Theresa Martin.”

It was time.

Theresa moved through the seam made by a pair of burgundy curtains. She heard applause and laughter, then when she stepped out onto the stage, she heard catcalls and whistling. Then she heard other things, things that brought new color to her face. She heard disgust and derision, first from strangers than from people she knew.

Sitting in the front row were a trio of judges that she knew, one she shared the Supreme Court with. His name was Donald and he’d asked her out a few times but every time she had politely declined, telling him it was best to keep their relationship personal. He was leering at her now, and when she caught his gaze his licked his lips and grabbed his crotch. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and from it he pulled a stack of dollar bills.

Behind him was Jessica, her best friend. She was frowning and shaking her head. Next to Jessica was Carla. She’d met Carla in college and while they weren’t enemies they weren’t exactly friends. Carla had always been jealous of Theresa and by the smile in her eyes, Theresa knew Carla was enjoying Theresa’s fall from grace. Seeing the joy that Carla exhibited, she reasoned that maybe they weren’t really friends.

The music started to play, a loud song she knew from when she was a teenager. She strode to the center of the stage. She grabbed the stripper’s pole, not to spin around it, but to have it help hold her aloft. She was certain that at any moment her knees would buckle, and she’d fall to the ground. Another thought followed that one. Maybe she should fall. Maybe she’d hit her head and black out. Maybe she’d awaken in a hospital with this nightmare behind her.

In the corner, Sheila was watching her. It was hard to see. The club had dim lights everywhere but on the stage. No, the stage was lit as brightly as a Monday night NFL game. There wouldn’t be a crack or crevice that wouldn’t be seen by the patrons, and her friends. She was there to be seen and the lights made sure that happened.

“Take it off,” she heard.

Her throat tightened again. She knew that voice. She couldn’t place his name, Gerald, Jerry, she wasn’t sure, but she knew him. Oh, God. It was that long-ago cowboy, his voice the epitome of downhome Southern stupid that she had always hated. He was the one that had asked her out and she had laughed in his face, not intentionally, a woman of class didn’t do that, but she wasn’t a woman of class, not anymore. She was a strumpet, standing on a brightly lit stage, holding onto a shiny silver bar for support, about to take off her clothes for strangers. And worse, for people she knew.

“Take it off,” Gerald or Jerry said again. “Let’s see them tits.”

Behind her the curtain moved. The Sheriff was there, one hand tucked into his belt. The implication – the threat – was clear; she wasn’t going to get out of this. Not that there had been any hope of that. She had begged to be here, pleading on her knees, her legs splayed open, unable to endure the pain in her back or her hands. But there was a different kind of pain. That had been physical. This was different. It was more than emotional. And it was deeper than that. It was spiritual.

Her fingers inched up her stomach to the knot in her shirt. It was time. The song had been playing for a good twenty seconds. The crowd wasn’t the least bit restless. No, all eyes were on her, staring rapt, waiting for her to strip herself for their amusement. That it was difficult made it better for them. More enticing. More delicious. It was like staring at an accident on the side of the road, hoping to see a body covered by a bloody tarp. It was schadenfreude to the ultimate degree.

The trembling, traitorous fingers fumbled with the knot. She felt the ends of her shirt slide across her abdomen. The shirt opened, revealing the lacy, red half-bra that she wore. She pulled the shirt off her shoulders, feeling more and more skin becoming uncovered.

The crowd, friends, enemies and in-betweens alike, all there to witness her degradation, were staring with focused intensity. Their eyes were locked onto her, like a starving dog finally finding a discarded chunk of meat, only Theresa was that meat, and she was feeding them with her humiliation. Her cheeks were aflame with color, the red hue spilling down her throat. Her trembling hands dropped the shirt onto the ground.

Donald let out a loud sound of appreciation. He had moved forward, staring with unblinking intensity, like a cat stalking a mouse. His wallet fell to the ground and he was too focused on her to notice or care. He was waiting for her to continue. What he was going to see he would never be able to unsee. How could she work with him, knowing that he’d seen her naked? That she had performed for him, one embarrassing dollar at a time. She would do it. She needed those dollars. She couldn’t wind up back in the field.

“You’ll quota will double,” she’d been warned.

“Please,” she had begged. “I can’t stand this pain.”

“You’ll never fill that many bags,” the guard had sounded compassionate, but she had known it to be an act. “Are you sure?”

He had made her beg with the other women watching before finally promising to pass on the message. That was before he’d warned her about Sheila and her hateful plan. The guard had been right though. She’d never pull eighty pounds of cotton from the ground. And the punishment for failure was still overly steep.

The music kept playing. It wasn’t loud enough to pull her away from the stage. No, she knew where she was and what she was doing and she hated it and she hated herself for it. Behind her, the curtain moved just enough to remind her of the Sherriff standing backstage, taking in her shame.

Across the room, Sheila was watching her, a grin on her face large enough to shame the Cheshire cat. I did that, that grin said. I did this to you. There was more to that grin than joy. There was arousal. Sheila was turned on by Theresa’s humiliation. Reaching for her skirt, if only to postpone revealing what she normally kept covered, Theresa realized that she hated Sheila.

Theresa unzipped the skirt and let it fall to the ground. She stepped over it before swiping it aside. She tried to put a bit of sexiness in her gait, but her humiliation kept her movements clunky. The crowd loved that even more. The nervous, jerky movement told them what Theresa was feeling: all the shame - the taut, nervous agony of humiliation filled the room and every eye on it took it in like a vampire sucking blood. The crowd reveled in her degradation.

Donald picked up his wallet and pulled out a single dollar bill. He moved to the stage, waving the dollar like a pennant.

Theresa saw it, knew what it meant and knew what it would mean. She shuffled to the edge of the stage and squatted, her knees together and turned to the side. She grabbed the hem of her panties and pulled it aside at the hip.

Donald laughed. “Oh, no. I’ve been briefed,” he glanced at the grinning Sheila, “you’re gonna have to earn it.”

Theresa cast a hateful glance at Sheila who merely lifted a glass of champagne as if in salute.

“Face me and spread ‘em.”

On the bench, Donald had been reserved, almost reverent. When he spoke, his voice was always full of compassion. Now it was different. He had been rebuffed by Theresa, but that wasn’t what this was about. This was about power. He had it. She did not.

The song kept playing. Time kept moving. She prayed for it to end, for the peering, leering eyes to vanish, leaving her alone with nothing but the agonizing memories of this horrid night. But wishes and prayers were useless tools. She was trapped and worse than that, she knew she was trapped. The agony of the anticipation was as hard as the act itself.

“Come on, slut,” Donald snarled.

Slut. Is that how he saw her now? How could they ever be peers again? Her lips quavered as her racing mind answered that question for her. They couldn’t. He would always remember her like this, a humiliated schoolgirl about to do the unimaginable for a lousy dollar.

Donald waited, savoring her reticence. He watched the agony of indecision on her face become one of shameful resignation. Grinning in victory, Donald watched as Theresa obeyed.

She spun, facing the crowd. Her eyes were shut, but that did not matter. She could still see them there, watching her, some of them disgusted, some of them aroused, all of them, friends and enemies alike, awash in her degradation. Theresa spread her legs. She gasped when Donald grabbed her knees and forced them apart. “Sluts like you don’t get to be demure. Spread ‘em and keep them spread.”

Holding her legs splayed, Theresa swallowed another bit of pride. She reached down and grabbed the crotch of her panties. With her eyes still shut, she pulled the fabric aside, revealing the hidden pink.

“Nice,” Donald said, holding her knees open as Theresa continued to hold her panties to the side, revealing her slit to the crowd. The roars of approval nearly drowned out the thrumming beat of the music. He flashed the dollar bill in front of her closed eyes. “Do you want it?”

She peeked then nodded.

“Give me your panties.”

She had known it was coming. Theresa pulled back, then stood up. Trembling, her fingers shaking like the leaves of a tree on a windy day, she reached beneath her skirt and pulled her panties down. She stepped out of them, feeling then how short her skirt was. It barely hid her naked crotch, and half her ass was uncovered, maybe more. She felt more naked because she was. With her panties she had felt mostly dressed, with one simple tug of fabric that comforting feeling had been extinguished.

Donald held out his hand, waving the dollar like a torero taunting a bull.

Theresa handed Donald that tiny wisp of red lace.

Looking up, Donald leered at her pussy then dropped the dollar bill onto the stage. “If you reach for it, I’ll grab it back. Pick it up with your mouth.”

Her humiliation would never end. She needed that dollar; she had a quota to fill. Shame-faced, with her throat tight, Theresa jumped through Donald’s hoop. It was something else he would lord over her long after her ninety days were up. As she dropped to her knees, she wondered how she would ever be autonomous again. Donald and her rarely saw things eye to eye. Now, as she inched forward, her lips pursed to suck a dirty dollar bill off the floor, she could almost her Donald mocking her, “Theresa, I think you’d do well to go my way. I would hate to have to tell everyone what you did over the summer.” But she knew he wouldn’t hate it. He’d savor it and even after her ninety days were up, he would have her following his every lead, like a rat being led from Hamlin. Do what I want or your secret gets blown. She knew, as he applauded her rising with his dollar bill stuck to her lips, that she would forever be beholden to him. That thought humiliated her even more.

The audience held rapt attention, watching Donald taming Theresa.

The song ended and the next one began. The beat was faster, the music louder. Theresa stood up, dropping the dollar bill as she did. She was wearing a bra and a skirt, and it was time for them to go. She hated it but she had no choice. Thinking of Donald and the power he now held over her, the power everyone in the club now wielded, she thought that maybe her whole life had suddenly become a big pile of no stinking choice.
Standing, undulation in agonizing humiliation, Theresa stripped off the rest of her clothes. Doffing her clothes in front of the window in town that first day had been horrible but that, as impossibly difficult as it had been, was far easier than it was now. Stripping then, putting her clothes in an ugly cardboard box, had been done in front of strangers, not people she knew, people who loved her, respected her. Now, each article of clothing took not only her clothing but her dignity and regard as well. Nobody in the room would ever, could ever, see her the same after this horribly shameful display.

The redneck cowboy whistled when her bra fell onto Donald’s dollar bill. Her gave a loud hoot when her skirt followed.

Theresa danced nude on the stage, squatting in front of everyone she knew as they waved dollar bills in her face. Jessica put a twenty on the stage and gave her hand a warm, comforting squeeze. She had one friend in the audience.

Carla wasn’t as kind. She approached Theresa, the dollar bill in her hand rolled into a tight, little cylinder. “Hold yourself open for me,” Carla said, baring teeth. “Hold yourself open and I’ll give you this dollar bill. I always knew you were a whore. Come on, whore, work for your money, spread that pussy wide.”

Hating herself, Theresa obeyed. She dropped her hands and spread herself open. She held herself there, her fingers spread, her pussy splayed, as Carla pushed the rolled-up bill into her. Carla held it there for a moment, then pulled it out before pushing it in again. Out and in, out and in. “I bet you can’t even feel that, can you whore?” Carla spoke loud enough to be heard over the music. Carla wanted to be heard.

But Theresa could feel it. The edge of the bill was sharp, and Carla was being anything but gentile. When Theresa didn’t answer, Carla pulled the bill free. “I asked you a question.”

Shame-faced, Theresa whimpered, “I could feel it.”

Smiling triumphantly, Carla put the bill back in its pink sheath. “I’ve got one more for you at the end of the night. We’ll see if you can feel that one, too.” Carla shrugged, “that’ll make you a two-dollar whore.” She laughed at her own joke and let another take her place.

Everyone she knew came by to offer up their own shameful acts. She had to kneel on the floor, her ass to the crowd and slap her own ass; lying on her back she was made to spread her legs and masturbate, only to have her hand slapped away again and again once it looked like she was getting even a modicum of pleasure; she was made to stuff her bra into her pussy until only a single folded arm strap was visible; she was forced to bark like a dog, howl like a wolf, and meow like a kitten. Through it all, trembling in shame, she recognized the scorn on the faces of her former friends, her enemies, her colleagues. She would never be able to face them again, not after this.

Not ever.

Sheila kept moving around Convicts, sending people up to the stage. Sometimes she laughed, other times she whispered in people’s ears, giving them ideas. Everyone Sheila visited came to the stage to make Theresa jump through some new, horrible hoop. When Sheila got to Donald, they put their heads together, like conspirators. Casting Theresa a malevolent grin, Sheila waved as Donald approached the stage.

“Sheila tells me you’re not going to make your quota and if that happens, you’ll be punished.” He said it with faux shock, like it was the most scandalous thing he’d ever heard. Smiling a lecherous grin, Donald continued, “I would feel bad if you got paddled when I could help you.” With that he pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. Benjamin Franklin looked jaundiced in Donald’s hand but when he held the bill to her, it almost glowed under the glaring lights of the stage. “This will help, but you’ll have to earn it.”

So, it was time. She had known it was coming. Hell, she had begged for it. Face scarlet with shame, perfectly visible under the oppressive glare, Theresa could only nod.

From across the club, over the thrumming music and murmur of the gathered throng, Theresa heard Sheila cackle in glee.

Theresa moved off the stage. Immediately the emcee announced the next dancer, but no one was paying attention to the stage any longer. All eyes were focuses on Theresa and her shame. Donald took her hand. It took every ounce of her strength not to pull it away. It was sweaty and gross; Donald was gross. What she was about to do was sicker still.

He led her, naked, to the corner of the club. She gave a longing glance at the next dancer and her clothes sitting unattended. Somehow, she knew they’d be gone when she was done with her newest humiliation.

Donald pushed her onto a table so that she was lying on her back, dropping the fifty-dollar-bill on the table by her head. Sheila appeared next to her, holding a stack of dollar bills and one sporting Andrew Jackson. It was the money that her best friend had given her. At least she didn’t lose the money. It was shameful work but at least it was honest. The Sherriff appeared behind Sheila, smirked, said, “I’ve seen it before,” then stepped away uninterested. To him she was just another whore, waving around just another wet pussy. To him she wasn’t anybody special. Oh, but to the people crowding around her she was something alright. She was a woman to be shamed and she was receiving that humiliation in spades.

“Hold yourself open for me, slut,” Donald said, dropping his pants. He seemed to have no problem with revealing his erection. Why would he though? He wasn’t there against his will; he wasn’t being shamed with what he was revealing. No, he was using his nudity as another way to debase her.

Theresa obeyed while looking away, but everywhere she looked all she could see was gleeful, mocking eyes and the faces of the people reveling in her humiliation. She looked for Jessica but couldn’t find her anywhere. Her only source of strength had been taken away. She looked for Sheila, but that shrew wasn’t visible anymore than Jessica was. Theresa somehow knew that Sheila was keeping Jessica occupied. She would find out much later that Sheila had promise Jessica her own spot in prison if she didn't leave right away. Jessica had left without a word.

“Rub yourself,” Donald said. “Get that pussy of yours juicy for me. Judicial Juicy,” he laughed then. “I think I’ll start calling you that. Judge Juicy. Your Juiciness.” He kept them rolling, each one making her cringe. How would she explain the horrible nicknames when the other judges heard them?

Theresa started rubbing her pussy, trying to work herself into a lather so that when he penetrated her, she wouldn’t be dry. It was difficult, almost impossible. She wasn’t aroused. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight, her pupils large even as she kept her eyes squinted shut. Her fingers played with against her slit until Donald slapped her hands away, “I’m going to enjoy this.”

With one lunge, one solid, driving thrust, Theresa truly became a whore.

At that moment she had thought that her life was over and that things could not get worse. Her eyes snapped open when she heard a voice she knew. A voice she had never thought to hear in a place like this. Not in a million, billion, trillion years. “Tea?”

With Donald thrusting into her she had turned towards the voice and in a weak little-girl voice she whimpered, “daddy.”

***

She had missed her quota by nine dollars. At the end of the night, after Convicts had closed, she had stood, pigeon-toed, her hands covering her breasts even though they had been seen by more people in one night than during the rest of her whole life, while Sheila counted out the money she had earned. Sheila was singing when it wasn’t enough. “So close,” she said. “I bet your daddy would have given you the money. God, did you see his face?”

Theresa had seen his face, the look of shock, disappointment, disgust, anger, resentment, and shame all contorted on her father’s wrinkled face. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget that look or how he had turned to run out of Convicts. He hadn’t come back, and she had no way to call him. She would carry that look and how it had felt to have her father, the man she respected more than anyone in the world, seeing her utter humiliation. She had never felt so low and she would carry that feeling long after her ninety days were up.

“Did you see his face?” Sheila repeated in that same sing-song voice.

“I saw it.”

“Good.” Sheila was beaming.

She received her punishment strokes with a leather strap before being returned to the prison, her first night as a whore finally, blessedly behind her.

***
Nearly three months later, when Sheila escorted Theresa from the club for the last time, she was naked and rubbing a very red ass. It was the same thing she did almost every night to try and soothe her stinging behind. This time, the Sheriff was waiting for her. The sun had long since set. Overhead the neon lights had been turned off as had all the lights in the parking lot save for one. Sitting beneath that one light was the Sheriff’s cruiser. He was waiting for her. Unlike Sheila he wasn’t smiling. He looked serious.

“Your honor,” he said approaching her with his thumbs tucked into his belt. “As you know,” he punctuated every word as if to mock her, “prostitution is illegal, and I have, on countless occasions, personally witnessed you having sex for money. Turn around. You’re under arrest.”

She wanted to laugh at the absurdity. She had not been there because she wanted to be. She had had no choice and the Sheriff knew it. This was all on him.

The Sheriff spun Theresa around. Grinning, Sheila stepped back, “get her, dad,” she said, beaming. Theresa would lose many nights thinking of Sheila’s relationship with her father as Theresa tried to repair the damage to her strained relationship with her own dad. A relationship that might never be truly mended.

Theresa was cuffed, and led, nude and lost with incomprehension, to the Sheriff’s cruiser. Convicts faded in the distance as she was driven down Lakewood Avenue back to the Sheriff’s station. After a ridiculous trial where she had not been allowed to speak, again, she was sentenced to another ninety days in the prison camp, “sentence to be begin as soon as your current judicial season was completed.” The judge had glanced at the Sheriff, "that's at the height of cotton season, right?" The Sheriff had agreed.

“It’ll be good to have you back,” the Sheriff had said, after leading her from the courtroom.

She was given the box containing her clothes and allowed to dress. Her car was brought to her. In the night air she noticed, as she had that day three months ago, that the brake lights were still working. Theresa dressed, her clothes now feeling alien to her, like the belonged to a higher-class woman. They fit, but they didn’t fit. Not at all.

“Drive safe,” the Sheriff said in a thick drawl. “We’ll see you in what? Nine months?”

Theresa remained mute; she wasn’t planning on coming back at all.

“We’d hate to have to put out an arrest warrant for ya’,” he said as if he knew what she was thinking. Perhaps he did. “We’d make sure it was a very public arrest.”

The threat wasn’t lost on her. She knew then, and it took everything she had not to sob, that she would be back when the current season of judicial dockets was complete.
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ZeeChromosome
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Re: Lakewood Avenue - Conclusion

Post by ZeeChromosome »

Redacted
Last edited by ZeeChromosome on Sun Oct 03, 2021 5:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.

bayviewrocks
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Re: Lakewood Avenue - Conclusion

Post by bayviewrocks »

This is my first ever doing this (by the way i am not an author, so I have guilt at reviewing when I can't do?)
My god, you did so many things so good. Here are my major suggestions after only reading once:
I experienced major dissonance in reading this thinking it was set in my real world. Maybe you covered that in early stuff or I rapidly read through. I am still trying to navigate and understand this site so please don't take me too seriously. I would suggest that you flesh out a context for the story and let the reader adjust to something "this is not the reality you live in". At least I hope it isn't. Change to a future date, location, post-something.
Maybe you did that on purpose to bend my mind as i slowly realized i am not in my world. Great way to get my attention but it detracted from my enjoyment of reading. Once I shifted into a different reality it was incredibly enjoyable in so many ways. Your skills are awesome.
Oh by the way I am so struggling with how to navigate this site I can't find other comments at the moment (Canadian Mist Blended Wiskey may be limiting me).
If you answer please help me find your other works. Great!!!

SmCyber
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Re: Lakewood Avenue - Conclusion

Post by SmCyber »

Some great images fhank you. I really enjoyed it.
Keep It coming.
Masturbation with dildos on the stage and a few shows choreographed with gang bangs with themes might be nice when she returns.
Bukkake would be OK as well.
Thanks for the story again.
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surferchick
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Re: Lakewood Avenue - Conclusion

Post by surferchick »

I totally love that finally someone finished off where others leave the room for imagination.
I love to read that and sure i love to feel like this. Thank you

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