Valerie in New Yor

[This story takes place immediately after the events described at the end of

Chapter 2

. This is in February, 1968.]

1966 Mercury Montego

After the Pontiac was gone Valerie stood by the light pole at 48th and Twelfth trying to consider her situation. Being February, it was still fully dark. She was tired and cold and a wind blew in from the Hudson River. Nevertheless she had only made about half of what she had expected for the night.

Was it better to try for a little more or pack it in and come back tomorrow night?

Her decision arrived in the form of a Mercury Montego, a rather ordinary mid-sized car. The driver opened the door on her side and beckoned for her to get in. He was in his forties;. he had a full head of short dark hair that was going gray and a matching bristly mustache. Valerie's intuition said that he was likely ex-military; maybe he still was in the service, but off-duty.

For a moment he sat there, the engine running, and then he said, "You must be a whore, aren't you?"

Valerie tried to think of a snappy comeback but she was impatient now, "Look, Mister, talking takes up my time, which is worth money. You get that, right?"

He frowned but otherwise seemed unfazed, "Yes, I know about that."

"So what do you need, ten minutes?" She told him the price just to talk and he agreed. He didn't even have to be prodded to produce the cash. Then he started driving north but within a couple of blocks he pulled into a side street and parked halfway up the block. As he turned off the engine he said, "Girls like you need to be corrected, you've fallen off the path."

Valerie considered that she had one of those religious proselytizers on her hands. She decided to throw him off balance for a moment, "And what about you, are you in the Army or something?"

"I was in the Navy. I was on the carrier

Kearsarge

when we picked up two of the Project Mercury astronauts. Schirra and Cooper, those were the guys."

She was actually impressed by this tale, "I remember that; that's pretty cool, I used to watch those space shots on TV."

He replied, "One thing I learned in the service, it was the importance of discipline, self-control."

Valerie remembered something she had heard from one of her customers last fall, "Oh yeah? You know what they said were the three things that held the British Navy together? Rum, sodomy and the lash."

"What are you talking about, sodomy?"

Man, this guy is really not the most imaginative sort.

"You know that old bit, how sailors get lonely at sea, after a while they start. . ." She considered how to phrase this. "They start buggering each other."

He said, "That never happens in the American Navy, I can assure you. But I'm not really here to talk." That didn't surprise her. He continued, "I'm going to teach you a lesson. You need to be punished." She now had a glimpse of what was coming, but she needed to know more.

"All right, what do you want to do about it? Be specific; it's going to cost you."

There was enough light from the streetlights for her to see his face. He had a self-satisfied expression, a little smile. "It's quite simple. I'm going to take you over my knee and beat you on your bare backside with my bare hand."

She had had this kind before. What she really hated was someone who used an implement of some kind like a strap or paddle. She would try to turn down those, but that was easier when she was standing outside and negotiating through the car window. When she was inside the vehicle refusing a trick was, well, a lot trickier.

She said, "Okay, five minutes say . . ." She thought for a moment and then came up with a price that was about 25% higher than what was usual for this.

The hell with him,

she thought,

make him pay for it.

He said, "What if five minutes isn't enough?"

"I'll keep track of it, I've got a watch. You want more fun and games, then you pay more."

"This isn't fun and games."

Yeah, yeah, whatever,

she thought. She couldn't help but needle him a bit. "What are you doing, God's work, it that what you think?" He hadn't brought up religion yet. Instead of answering he brought out the cash and gave it to her. Then he slid into the middle of the bench seat and said, "All right girlie, come over her. Lift up your skirt and drop your drawers."

He positioned her face down with her legs in the foot well and her head angled away from the steering well. She hoped he would take a fancy to her polka-dot panties under her wool bloomers; maybe he'd leave them up and make this experience a bit easier.

"These have to come down too. You're not going to fool me." The extra underwear was just a way to stay a bit warmer, but she didn't feel like explaining that to him. After yanking them down he asked, "What is your name, anyway?"

She always made up something, "Faye, I'm Faye Greener." That actually was a character from

The Day of the Locust.

"And what's your name?"

"It's Walter. What I want to know is: why did you debase yourself by coming a prostitute in the first place?"

She looked over her shoulder at him and decided to answer that one truthfully, "I need the money until I establish myself as a writer." He didn't reply to that; possibly those details didn't interest him. Instead he said, "You have a very pale little behind. It's going to be a very different color when I'm done.

Valerie thought,

pervert or religious fanatic, they're all fascinated by the marks left by a spanking.

He then said, "Are you ready?" She answered, "No, but I don't think I'll ever be."

He had a hard hand, she thought; he was a rather big guy and probably he had done some physical work in the Navy. She gasped as each blow went through her body. He slowed down every now and again to say something ridiculous, "You've been a real strumpet, Faye, you deserve everything I'm giving you."

Strumpet; that sounded kind of old-fashioned, like lady of easy virtue.

Then he said, "Stop wriggling so much."

"Yeah, you try it and see how you feel. What's the matter, your mommy didn't spank you enough as a kid?"

He got nastier, "You've going to judge me, you filthy slut?"

She was angry too, "I'm not a slut; sluts like men and I don't."

She hadn't helped herself because he started spanking her harder and faster. He stopped almost exactly at the five-minute mark and Valerie thought he must be watching the dashboard clock. He was breathing heavily but he seemed satisfied; he said, "I think that's going to do it. You've got some bruises back there, that's for sure. Okay, my dear, up and over."

He grabbed her by her coat and pulled her upright. She crouched on her end of the seat and rubbed her beaten ass. As she turned to try to see what it looked like back there he said, "Don't worry, I did a thorough job of tanning your hide."

Except, my hide is still on my body.

She usually didn't want to argue much with johns, but as she pulled her clothes together she said, "That really hurt. What exactly do you think you've accomplished?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe after a few more of these you'll get the picture." She considered that maybe he could be a steady customer that she could charge, or overcharge, on a regular basis. She had an inspiration and said, "For a little more, I'll give you a handjob right now" and she offered a price.

"Why would I want that?"

"Because I assume you must be as stiff as a pole right now."

"You think I'm some kind of sicko who actually enjoys punishing young girls?"

At nearly thirty-two Valerie didn't feel that young any more. She was going to come up with a sarcastic answer - he had set the trap for himself so perfectly - and yet a wave of fatigue came over her and she couldn't be bothered to do it. For a second she entertained the image of another, tougher girl stabbing him in the neck - because of something he said, some way he had hit her, or maybe just to rob him. She admitted to him, "Look, I'm tired and maybe you are too, let's get out of here."

Without further comment he started the car and drove off. Valerie thought of asking to be dropped off somewhere convenient but she hesitated. He drove around the block and in a few minutes stopped at the southeast corner of 57th and Twelfth. The first hint of daylight was showing. All he said was, "Get out."

"You wouldn't think of buying me a sandwich before you go; how about it?"

"No, I won't get you a sandwich."

She looked along 57th at the icy sidewalks stretching up the hill. She said, "Okay, just give me a lift up to Columbus Circle - it's a couple of minutes."

"You think everything is negotiable, everything is contingent on what you want." She didn't respond, but thought to herself,

what an asshole.

He continued, "I've got to get up to the bridge, it's a straight shot from here." He must have meant the George Washington, and Valerie vowed that with her next set of prayers she would call for disaster to befall the Garden State. She heaved the door open and got out on the cold street corner. When she closed the door he accelerated rapidly through the intersection and she glimpsed the New Jersey plate on the back. Johns always seemed to make a fast getaway as if they were fleeing something, maybe their own bad consciences.

********

There was one consolation about the four long blocks up to Columbus Circle and its subway stations. There was a diner halfway there at Ninth, and she went in and sat in a booth because her behind was too sore to perch on a counter stool. In there she ordered about every breakfast item she could think of although at the last minute she canceled the waffles. Now she had warmth and food and best of all, some release from the tension of being out on the street.

She thought about Walter and remembered other customers who wanted the opposite; they wanted her to punish and dominate

them.

That was something she was actually glad to do and it almost didn't seem like work at all. Some of them went over her knee in their cars, others went to rooms where they bent over chairs and tables. Some of them had supplied their own implements. They removed the belts from their pants or brought along rulers, thick eighteen-inch wooden school ones.

Various issues were bothering them, often sexual guilt about masturbation, visits to porn theaters or their patronage of prostitutes. They usually wanted her to verbally chastise them too, and she happily made up lines that would fit such situations - lines like,

you worthless maggot jerk-off, I'm going to beat you black and blue, you won't sit for a week.

She was impressed at how stoic they mostly were, how much of a beating they could endure. She would try to break them, reduce them to crying or begging for mercy, but she was only able to accomplish that once in a while.

As she ate she pondered what it would take to become a real dominatrix, one who did only that and didn't have to deal with sticky things like blowjobs. Maybe they were paid well and she would have time for her writing. Sometimes, she had heard, the clients were professional men, executives would needed a break from the pressures of power. She could imagine her own studio, one side her writing area and the other side for her naughty clients. A skylight: her place had to have one of those.

She considered that she might not be quite the physical type for dominance; she imagined them as tall and statuesque, the kind of lady who would look good in leather outfits or whatever else they wore. Maybe she could invent a persona that would suit her, maybe like a strict English professor she had known at the University of Minnesota. As Professor Solanas she would say,

Johnny, you didn't read your Emily Dickinson, now you are going to take the consequences.

That would be the classroom cane on his bare buttocks.

Afterwards Johnny would be standing there with his embarrassingly erect cock and she would take some pity on him.

Yes, Johnny, you've got two hands, you may whack off while I watch. Show your teacher what a nice big wad you can shoot for her.

During this reverie Valerie conked out while sitting upright and then she startled herself awake. The apartment she shared with her friend Stevie was on 15th Street. As meager as that place was it was better than this booth. It was getting lighter outside, it was time to go. Her ass hurt somewhat but maybe that's what asses were for. She had money now, not as much as she had hoped for, but it was better than being broke. Perhaps she would make some inquiries about getting into the domination trade.

NYC Transit Authority car 467, American Car and Foundry, 1933

When she got down to the platform at Columbus Circle it was evident that something was wrong with the downtown trains. It was now 7:30 AM, rush hour was starting, and a huge number of people crowded the platform. She wanted a local, an AA or CC train, but nothing came in on either track. Finally a D express came in on the local side and a lot of the waiting passengers boarded it. It was standing room only but a transit worker announced that it was running as an Eighth Avenue local. Valerie got on and hung onto a strap in the middle of the car.

It was one of the old pre-war trains and it was noisy. Valerie stood there in the glare of the bare lights bulbs and listened to the sounds it made. She felt she might fall asleep on her feet and she tried to focus to keep that from happening. The train's motors and gears made a distinctive whining noise as it accelerated and it seemed like it took just seconds to reach the next station. She knew she had probably lost consciousness briefly.

The doors hissed and clattered open, a compressor throbbed under the floor and then the doors closed and the whining sequence repeated itself. At 42nd Street a lot of people left, jostling her as they passed. At the next one, 34th, even more left and she spotted a seat. It was the first car and the spot was next to the front bulkhead. She eased her sore bottom against the hard rattan seat surface. There were only two more stops before home. Without intending it, she almost instantly fell asleep.

When she awoke the car was empty and the train was outdoors with winter sunlight shining through the windows. Her first thought was,

oh shit, Brooklyn.

She stood at the front window and saw that the train was moving at a good clip along the express track in an open cut. At intervals concrete arches carried cross streets above the tracks. The train seemed to be moving faster than she had experienced them before and she wondered if this was an illusion caused by fatigue.

She kept calm as she saw the approach to an express station. Then the train whistle blew several times, a high-pitched, shrill sound, and she knew that this station was going to be bypassed. As it sped past the platform without slowing down she started banging on the door to the motorman's cab. "Hey, man, when are we stopping? What's the next station?" No voice responded to her pleas.

She paced back into the car's interior. The first roll-sign said "FF" train, which she knew wasn't presently used as a route designation. Some kid must have cranked the sign as a prank. The two destinations listed above it made no sense either. She stalked up to the cab door and started kicking it. "Come on you fucker, I know you're in there; I'm stuck here, let me off." The doors were usually locked but she tried it anyway. Now the driver was really unlikely to come out to confront whatever crazy woman was on the other side.

There was nothing to do now except stare out the window. Valerie guessed that that train had been taken out of service and somebody had missed her when it was cleared. It was now likely she'd wind up in the huge storage and maintenance yard at Coney Island. She'd have to climb down between cars and pick her way out of there while a cold wind blew in from the Atlantic.

It wasn't the worst thing that could happen to her with the kind of life she had been living, but she was tired and her nerves were frayed this morning. Sometimes it was the smaller annoyances like this stupid train ride that bothered her more than anything else. Some part of her wanted to deny the really serious consequences that could befall her out in the street.

On the outbound local platforms a few commuters noticed the train zooming by on the express track. They had no idea that every minute it was taking a young woman on board further from where she wanted to go. In a few seconds it was gone from their sight.

*******

It was nearly noon when Valerie got back to 15th Street; Stevie was out somewhere. She had been lucky perhaps because the train had stopped at Brighton Beach station and the doors had been opened. She rode back to Manhattan, sleeping again on the train, but her internal clock woke her before she needed to get off.

The coming night was not going to be one on the street for her. She needed the money but she needed more to recover her physical and mental energies. Just before she fell asleep she hoped she wouldn't dream of being trapped on trains, but she was lucky again and no such images troubled her mind that afternoon.

******