I can pinpoint with crystal clarity the moment when things began to turn sour between me and my uncle.
At the time, I didn't see it as anything other than just a potentially interesting night that went bad. But looking back on it, I've come to realize that the experience I endured that night was the first time where things really went too far, and I found myself starting to dislike something I had previously come to enjoy.
To begin with, it happened on the Independence Day weekend in 1991, and that didn't exactly put me in the most positive frame of mind.
Even today, I have a hard time getting festive about the Fourth of July, because it was during that holiday weekend when I was 11 that everything came crashing down around me with regard to Schultzie and my mom. My life changed forever that bleak weekend in 1981, and I'm always reminded of that when the holiday comes around.
And in '91 it really hit me hard. It had been 10 years since the night my mom caught Schultzie in the act of molesting me sexually, and subsequently shot him to death. That act had sent her to prison for life and me to the hellhole that was the girls' school for juveniles in Oklahoma and thus to my Uncle Bill.
Moreover, by the summer of 1991, I had been Uncle Bill's whore for three years, and I was beginning to get tired of it. I was weary of empty, monotonous sex with anyone who had the money to pay for me, the long nights taking on a parade of men, most of whom were more than a little drunk.
Also, I was approaching my senior year at the university, and I was starting to anticipate life after college, when I could get a real job and not have to fuck for a living. More to the point, I was starting to look forward to getting away from Uncle Bill and getting out on my own.
Complicating matters was the fact that I had met someone the previous semester that I really liked, almost to the point of love, except that it was another girl.
Leave it to me to have my first significant relationship be with another woman, but then what else would you expect from someone with such a dysfunctional life as mine.
Let me be clear on one thing. I am not, was not, nor have I ever been a lesbian. I was forced into committing lesbian sex acts at the juvenile school, where I learned everything there was to learn about sex between women, and I had subsequently come to enjoy certain aspects of lesbian love in the course of my career as a prostitute.
But I was always a heterosexual in my psychological make-up. I always dreamed of finding a husband and bearing his children, and I never wavered from that dream even when I had my face buried in some woman's fragrant pussy.
Nevertheless, Janelle Hatch was the critical person in my life. She showed me that it was possible to have sex with another person without one partner using the other, to give love to another without regard for what either one might be able to squeeze out of the relationship.
I had never had a relationship where the only thing that mattered was making the other partner happy. Although I didn't "love" Janelle in the romantic meaning of the word, it was with her and through her that I learned the true meaning of love.
We met at the university's fitness center, where I had taken to going for lunch. Having sex for a living - at least the way I practiced it - is physically demanding work. So it wasn't long after I started turning tricks that I realized that I'd be doing myself - and my customers - a big favor if I stayed in pretty good shape.
So I always scheduled my classes so that I'd have a nice long break for lunch. I'd go to the fitness center, run through a series of exercises - push-ups, sit-ups, jumping rope, jogging and occasionally swimming - eat a light lunch there at the salad bar, then go on to my afternoon classes.
About two weeks into the spring semester my junior year, I noticed this cute new girl working behind the counter at the fitness center. She was a little shorter than average, and solidly built, with a beautiful pair of DD-size tits that made me drool the very first time I saw her. She had big, gorgeous brown eyes, lips that were full but not excessive and a wild, shoulder-length mane of soft, bushy curls.
We'd chat as she ran my ID card through the scanner, then we started having lunch together and occasionally we'd do a workout together. We hit it off right from the start.
It didn't take me long to figure out that she had the hots for me pretty bad, and I found myself attracted to her like I had never been with another female, especially after we started to get close and found out how much we had in common.
It might not have seemed that way at first blush, since she was a black girl from Kansas City and I was a white girl from the country. But we had both lost our fathers at an early age, we both had mothers who drank heavily and - most critically - we had both been molested in our prepubescent years by an older man who was supposed to be taking care of us.
In her case, it was her uncle, and it went on for four long years before she finally worked up the courage to tell someone, and he ended up going to prison over it. Unlike me, Janelle's experience had made her deathly afraid of any kind of intimacy with a man, so she had fully and completely embraced the lesbian lifestyle.
Finding out we had this in common was the spark that led us to our first sexual encounter, and it was a life-changing experience for me. We feasted on each other's bodies that afternoon, and we happily exhausted ourselves. I had never been with someone who was so giving of herself sexually. My pleasure was paramount to her, and, in turn, that made me want to please her all the more. It really was a beautiful relationship, and we're still best friends today (though not lovers).
For the rest of the semester, I would spend a couple of nights a week with Janelle, nights when I wasn't working for Uncle Bill, because I had labs and stuff to do that kept me on campus late. I think Uncle Bill suspected there was someone I was seeing on campus, and that helped set in motion a lot of what was to come.
And the truth is, Uncle Bill was starting to get on my nerves. He was coming up with more and more of these outlandish party ideas that usually ended with me taking on large numbers of men.
One time, he had me do a strip show at Cosmo's bar in Jeff City, then had everyone there take a turn with me in the back room of the bar. Another time, he took me to a truck stop along I-70 not too far from Kansas City and passed me around to as many truckers as he could find that were willing to pay for me. Talk about awful, it was absolutely one of the worst nights of my life.
Uncle Bill was really starting to enjoy humiliating me and degrading me, and he never missed an opportunity to belittle me. But after that incident, I put my foot down, and told him if he tried anything like that again, that I'd cut his nuts off.
And I meant it. I was starting to assert my independence, starting to think, act and do for myself as I passed age 21. Plus, I was letting loose some of the latent temper that I inherited from my mother, after years of keeping it tightly bottled up, and none of that sat very well with my uncle.
He tried to bully me, the way he always had, and in some respects, he succeeded. But I was absolutely adamant about staying out of those kinds of situations, for the sake of my health and my safety.
As long as we stayed in the county and worked at Bill's Place, I felt reasonably safe, both from violence and disease. Fact is, I consider myself incredibly lucky that I didn't come out of my four years of whoring for Uncle Bill with some sort of sexually transmitted disease, or that I never encountered any serious violence, at least not until the bitter end.
One thing working in my favor was the fact that in this part of the country at that particular time, AIDS was still mostly a "gay" disease. While I'm sure there were a few gay men in the area, they kept themselves deeply closeted, and I never met one who was open about it in my home county.
I felt like Uncle Bill was deliberately putting me in danger by carrying me to these places, so I reminded him, quite forcefully, that he'd promised that I wouldn't get hurt working for him. He backed off for a time, but his mind was becoming so diseased by what he was doing to me - and to himself - that it was only a matter of time before things would get out of control.
And it really started that Friday night, July 5, 1991.
I've said a couple of times before that over the course of time, I had become a real cum junkie. Starting not long after that night at the adult bookstore three years earlier, I had developed a taste for the stuff.
I loved the taste when I swallowed a man's load, I loved the texture when cum was spewed on my body, especially my face, and I loved the sensation when a man spilled his seed in my pussy or my ass. And, as I said once before, the more cum, the better.
So when a fellow named Jack Cornish came to Uncle Bill about buying me for what he called a Cum Party, I found the idea intriguing. No, let me be honest. I found the idea to be a huge turn-on.
Jack had been coming around for about six months, and he and Uncle Bill had become friendly. Like Bill, he'd been in the service in Europe, and had retired after a long career. He was divorced and lived with a buddy at a place on the outskirts of town.
He said he'd gotten the idea from a club in Amsterdam, where the featured attraction was a "target girl." One of the working girls at the club would be chosen to be the target girl for the night, and her job was to kneel, lie down, stand, whatever, and let anyone who paid a certain fee to shoot cum all over her body.
Naturally, Uncle Bill thought it was a splendid idea, and the deal was made. Jack passed the word around to his friends, acquaintances and patrons at the bar that I would be doing a "special" party the night after the Fourth of July.
I figured a good party was just what I needed to wipe out the funk that I was feeling about the holiday, and all that it meant to me.
Jack wanted me to arrive around 8 o'clock that night, even though the party wasn't scheduled to get going until about 10.
