The Life of a Hoosier Farm Girl

This is Chapter 5 of a nine chapter story. In Chapter 4, Nancy and Billie Jean get it on. The sex is so good, that it rocks Nancy's world. She begins to question her previously never questioned lifelong belief that she is straight. But the beauty and serenity of the afterglow from her time with Billie Jean is ruined when Mike puts on a video of Nancy's undoing in Indiana, when she was known as the Slut of Brown County. She returns home devastated, only to discover Diego has stalked her and is at her apartment, ready to resume their "relationship." Perhaps in part to reassure herself as to her sexual orientation, they end up having a second "one night stand."

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The next day, even though it was Sunday, I reported for work. I worked at one of the nice hospitals on the East Side of Manhattan. It was a long subway ride and to save time I wore my nursing outfit under a light coat. People are sick all week long of course, so nurses have to come in when they are needed, which is most of the time!

Luckily it was a busy day. I was kept running around and had no time to think about Mike, Al, Billie Jean and the restaurant. I began to suspect some force of nature that constantly shoved Billie Jean into my life.

Not that it was a bad thing: I had come to like Billie Jean. A lot.

It was two weeks later, and I had not heard from Mike. Well, I thought, it was fun while it lasted, although it was certainly bizarre at Al's palace on Park Avenue. But now I guess it was over. I would probably never see him again. It made me sad; I guess I had fallen for him. Hard. Well, too bad, I thought. I was working intensive care. There was no time for idle ruminations; I had to pay attention.

I had just been wondering whatever happened to Billie Jean, whom I also had not seen for two weeks, when suddenly she appeared as a patient. She was moved to my floor after her entry to the emergency room. Being in intensive care after the ER was not a good sign. Billie Jean was too young I figured to have had heart problems; it had to be something else. Perhaps it was a car accident?

Billie Jean was out, dead to the world (bad phrase for a nurse, I know) as the orderly wheeled her in. I read her chart. She had alcohol poisoning and had been seriously beaten. She had endured a bad cut below her left breast. She had almost bled out. She had lost 4 pints of blood, and that's close to a fatal loss. She had been found just in time. (She had been found curled up, naked, in an alley on the Upper East Side.) She had been shackled and starved over an extended period. She was full of semen, both inside her and on her body, and she was suspected of having been raped.

I stood there in shock. I had left her happy with Mike and Al on Friday night only two weeks earlier. What could have happened to her? I lurked near her room as much as possible to see what was happening. Two hours later a doctor emerged from her room. I knew him: He was Dr. Goldsmith, one of the best all-around doctors in the hospital, according to the opinion of the nurses.

He left the room, saw me, and told me to follow him. I did, of course. We went out to where two police detectives were waiting. Introductions were made. Dr. Goldsmith led the three of us into the room with Billie Jean. The second bed in the room was empty. They had already done the rape kit. Semen had been saved for possible DNA testing. They did not know who she was. Apparently, she had no ID with her.

"I know the patient," I said. Six eyes swiveled and looked at me. Dr. Goldsmith looked quite surprised. "I met her at the women's march down in DC three weeks ago. I ran into her again in NY in a restaurant, where she was with her 'sugar daddy.' Her name is Billie Jean Stallworth. She hails from Louisiana, I believe."

"Well this is a stroke of luck," the lead detective said. "What else can you tell us?"

"Can't you wait until she wakes up and ask her?" I asked.

Dr. Goldsmith looked at me tenderly. Gently, he said, "Nancy, read her chart. She may not wake up."

I fainted but only for an instant; as I fell the lead detective caught me, his hand brushing my boobs. He subtly felt me up as he righted me. What is it with men, I thought to myself? Get over it; they're just mammary glands.

I began to cry. I had already seen too much death. I like Billie Jean. I remembered so vividly how she kissed me and how she fondled my boobs. I remembered how she tasted of a mixture of alcohol and tobacco, the smell of her hair, and her soft manner of speaking. I even loved her accent, and the trite way she would say "honey chile." She was so alive; she lived hard, more than most people ever do, I thought.

Please wake up, I thought. Please come back to us. I silently said a prayer for her.

The two detectives led me away to interview me. I told them everything: I told them of Mike, the restaurant, the taxi, and most of all of Al's apartment, and how I abandoned Billie Jean to the two men (and the hot and cold running servants). I told them of our lesbian sex show for the men. I even told them of Clovis and the video, and why I walked out, never to see any of the three of them again.

The two detectives looked stunned. I inferred that most people would not readily contribute all those humiliating and degrading sexual details. But I wanted to help to find the villains who did this to my sweet Billie Jean. I figured telling the whole truth, telling everything, was the best way to help.

But there was another reason I revealed so much of my sexual history. It was perverse, to be sure. I actually enjoyed shocking the two detectives with the tales of my wild sexual antics. One of the detectives was cute, and he tried not to show it, but he looked at me with sexual interest. I had some fun. I idly wondered if I made them hard. When we all stood, I saw that indeed I had. I smiled.

The detectives thanked me and left. I had asked them who had brought Billie Jean into the ER? A local merchant had found her and called the police. Two cops responded and they found her naked and unconscious in an alley and they called for an ambulance. How horrible!

Not knowing what to do, I sent a text to Mike, letting him know "our friend" Billie Jean was unconscious in intensive care in the hospital. He wrote back right away, and said he was coming over to the hospital. I texted back that it was pointless; she was in intensive care, and unless he was family, he could not visit. But maybe he could let Al know the news?

Mike did not reply to the suggestion re Al. Well, I could not think about it, because we had an emergency, one of those 'all hands on deck' emergencies. It was an exhausting day. When my shift was over I was too tired to change. I decided to go home in my nurse's outfit. It was certainly not the first time I had been too tired to change for the trip home.

As I neared the hospital exit I saw Mike, sitting there with a huge bouquet of flowers. I went over to him. "That's very sweet Mike. But intensive care patients cannot have flowers. They're pretty, though."

"The flowers are for you, Nancy. When I read your text I realized how much I missed you. How much I love you," Mike said.

"What about Clovis, the videos, and my behavior that you saw on the videos?" I asked.

"I've thought about that. I guess you must have been very drunk. Your breasts looked great in them."

"Mike," I said, "You saw me having all kinds of sex, with three men at the same time. And after I enjoyed the sex with the three of them, I had sex with I don't know how many men over a period of a few months. Admit it: You were grossed out, big time."

"Nancy," he said, "I've now seen you on video giving away your body to three men at once, loving it, and giggling your way through it. You were on drugs, weren't you? I don't know. One thing I do know if that I've never seen anything sexier in my life. I am in awe of you."

"You're in awe of me? Nancy, the Slut of Brown County? A girl who fucked what seemed like half the men in the county? Some of them I did two at a time. Mike, I was totally out of control, and now you know it, Al knows it, and Billie Jean knows it, bless her heart. How could you have played that video? How could you have done it?"

"Well, Nancy, at the time I thought the woman I loved was a fraud. You behaved with me as if you were a proper woman; a little exhibitionist, sure, but that turned me on. You told me you were not the kind of girl who has sex on the first or second date. But hell, you were fucking men you did not even know. I felt played. I felt deceived," he said.

"And now? What do you think now?" I asked. I was not about to explain myself to him. I was not about to tell him about the meds. After all, the meds simply removed all of my inhibitions, allowing me to do anything I wanted to do. Apparently on some unconscious level, I am a flaming slut. That's who I am, deep down. That's me.

"Now I don't care. I want you. I think about you all the time. Please forgive me," Mike said. I saw in his eyes that he was sincere.

"Mike, I left Indiana and came here to get away from all that. It does not matter why I did what I did in Brown County. Apparently, that's who I am. I don't want to be that slut, but apparently, deep down, that is who I am. Now you know, now Al knows, and now Billie Jean knows, and I pray to God she wakes and lives to laugh about it with me," I said and I paused.

"Knowing all that, you had better think carefully if you still want to see me. And I need to think if I still want to see you, after having seen the look of hatred and contempt in your eyes the last time I saw you," I concluded.

We were having this discussion in the lounge area where visitors wait to see patients in critical condition. Several people were listening intently to what we were saying. They now knew that the hospital has at least one nurse who was, or had been back in Indiana, a famous slut: The Slut of Brown County.

I imagine several men listening would go home and Google 'Slut of Brown County.' If they did, one of the links would be to a porn site, and there I would be: The hospital's intensive care nurse, naked and fucking my brains out with man after man after man. I would have cocks in my mouth, cocks in my ass, and --oh yes-cocks in my pussy. I know that they would be able to find the video that way, because I had already done it.

We talked some more, and I guess I still held a torch for Mike, because against my better judgment, and my intuition, I agreed to go out with him the next weekend. I needed a week to think things through.

I know I could have tried to explain things by telling him of the experimental meds. I had of course thought about that a lot. But you know, while I could never do those things again, when I think back to them my memory is one of fondness. I absolutely loved being free of all inhibitions and being such a flaming slut. I loved that the meds amped up my sex drive, and I loved feeling all those different cocks inside me. I loved, I even needed, men to want me like that.

But that was then. This is now, and I could never behave like that without being on those meds again. I just could not. Besides, it was all empty sex, and now what I want is meaningful sex. I want sex with a man I care for deeply and who most of all cares for me.

But there is another factor; a big one. I discovered during my all too brief time with Mike (and for that matter, with Diego) that even with no drugs at all, I am a flaming exhibitionist. I don't know what I'm talking about, but probably I am a submissive, too. After all, that fateful evening when we went to Al's Park Avenue palace, I was perfectly willing to continue lesbian sex with Billie Jean, and to fuck both Al and Mike, and even the servant, if that is what Mike had wanted me to do. I was under his power.

Then I bared the most intimate parts of my body to the anonymous public in Brooklyn Bridge Park, just because Diego wanted me to do so. I enjoyed doing it, too. I never would have done it if Diego had not wanted me to do it. Somehow his demands of me relieved me of the shame and responsibility I would have if I had even thought to have done those things myself.

Who knows what I am capable of if I am doing what a controlling man wants? It scares me to think about it, but when I do, I have to masturbate until I cum. It gets me hot to think of myself within the power of a man. And as long as I am confessing, I have also watched at least five different times Clovis' video of me acting out in sexual extremis, back home in Indiana.

I took the flowers home. Mike and I had a date for Saturday night. All during the week I checked up on Billie Jean. She was still in a coma, but breathing regularly on her own. There were small signs she was getting better. Dr. Goldsmith told me he was now hopeful she might have a quick recovery, and she had been moved out of intensive care.

The police detectives had so far not learned even what happened to her, let alone found out who had done it. All they knew for sure was that there was a rape involved, and at least two different men, perhaps more than two, had done the deed.

I spent time sitting with Billie Jean, reading poetry to her. I did it for myself more than for the unconscious Billie Jean, of course, but I felt you never know what can help; the brain is so complicated, maybe there was a level that appreciated the poetry, or perhaps just the human company.

When not reading poetry to the unconscious and immobile Billie Jean, I lost myself in deep thought, trying to figure out what I wanted, and what I should do about Mike this coming weekend. I hatched a plan, albeit one that was not fully thought out. At home, I looked at the bouquet of flowers.

Had the flowers really been intended for me, or were they for Billie Jean, with an adept quick save when I told him there were no flowers permitted in intensive care? What had he done with or to Billie Jean that fateful Friday night after I walked out? Or since then? Could he have somehow been involved with her rape and hospitalization?

Well, it was not much risk to go on one more date with Mike, right? If I thought it was too much of a risk to go on a date with a man I knew and had been ready to bed, even if it never happened, what did that say about me and paranoia? No question, I decided: I'm keeping the date.

What to wear? Had I dressed too sexy the first two times I went out with Mike? As I thought of that, I realized this was my third date. High school protocol was you give the boy some sexual concessions on the third date. I was a widow, far in time and place from high school, but these ideas kept surfacing in my bubble headed brain.

One thing was for certain: I could not possibly wear a third time the zippered sweater I wore the first two dates. Another obvious choice: Given the trouble I had before, I was definitely going to be wearing a bra. Maybe an armored, reinforced bra? Just kidding.

Still, I knew it was important to look sexy for Mike. He is that kind of man. I went shopping. It did not take long: H&M, the first store I visited, had the perfect item: A black dress. The dress was backless and strapless. Some kind of special and quite clever engineering kept the front up and in place.

The dress barely came high enough to cover enough of my breasts so that I could wear it in polite society. No bra was needed: the dress had some built-in support. With a naked back all the way down to my ass, I would need low riding panties. The dress even revealed the top of my ass crack.

The dress came to just below my knees. That's long, but it had slits up the sides all the way to my hips. It would be tricky for my panties not to show. Dare I go without panties? Go on a third date without a bra or panties? Isn't that just a bit too, too outrageous?

The dress would be great with my red patent leather heels. I modeled it in the store, commando, and a strange man came over to me and said, "Miss, you have to get that dress. You are a vision in it." Then he turned and walked away. The saleswoman watched him walking away with her mouth open. She looked at me and she said, "You know, that man is right. That dress was made for you. It's destiny."

I bought the dress. I don't fight with destiny. The saleswoman rang up the sale, and she told me, "If I may be forward and make a suggestion, a gold broach just above one of your breasts would be the perfect accent to this dress. It has such a large expanse of black. You will be irresistible to any man lucky enough to attract your attention."

I thanked the saleswoman and went to the section on costume jewelry. I was already wearing the dress, so that I could test the broaches on it. It did not take long to find the perfect broach. It was big, colored in gold, and decorated in rhinestones. It would add shine and sparkle. Best of all, it said, "Nasty Woman" in discrete letters on the broach. Hopefully it will remind Mike of the women's march. Our time together in DC is a fond memory.

And if that were not enough, I further planned to wear my pink pussy hat with the dress. That'll do it. It will give some more color, too. After all, my favorite designer Missoni had just added pussy hats to his runway models. If I had any doubts about wearing the hat to dinner, that act erased them. Planning my outfit for the big night allowed me not to think too much about Mike, Billie Jean, Al and the videos. It was a great distraction. Also, it was fun!

Saturday came all too soon. My friend Betsy came over to help me to get ready. When I was done, Betsy looked at me as I preened in front of the full-length mirror. She shook her head slowly. "What's wrong?" I asked, a little alarmed.

"Nancy, why don't you just strap a mattress to your back? Looking like you do tonight, no man can resist you. Elton John himself would want to ravish you!" We both giggled.

"I'll light a candle for Elton," I said.

"Open your window, so there will be some wind," Betsy said.

"Can't do it. Burglars," I said. I got a tiny desk fan and positioned it near the candle. "How's this?" and we giggled some more.

The bell rang. I went down the staircase to greet Mike. Betsy said she'd let herself out. "Thanks, Betsy. It was a delight having your help!" I said, as I stood poised with my hand on the doorknob. Showtime.

I opened the door. Mike looked gorgeous. God, the man cleaned up well. He was so handsome, dressed in his tropical weight wool Armani suit, with a soft blue dress shirt, and a soft yellow tie. A silk handkerchief was in his breast pocket. I was thrilled. Women always dress for dates with men they like, but it's a rare man who will go out of his way to dress for the woman.

Mike wasted no time. He took me in his arms right there on my front stoop and kissed me, while running his hands all over my bare back.

Fortunately Mike did not try to slip a hand under the dress to find my naked behind, missing my panties with "Grab Here" written over my pussy. They were still in my bureau drawer. His hands did however go to my thighs, exposed by the high slits in my dress. All of a sudden I became hyper aware I had no panties on, and our date was only two minutes old. I was hoping Mike had not fully realized this yet.

"Let's try to make it to the restaurant, Mike, okay?" I said.

Mike walked me down to the Lyft car. He was having trouble keeping his hands off me and under my dress. I was doing a good job of stopping his hands, fortunately. I felt like Sisyphus: every time I would stop his hands and remove them from my body, a minute later they would be back.

"Please, Mike?" I begged. Mike took pity on me and we had an adult conversation about politics, and the problems of New Jersey Transit, always a good conversation starter. Why NJ Transit? I have no idea. Maybe it was because there was always something to talk about concerning the problems of NJ Transit? But it was better than being mauled in the back of a Lyft car on the Williamsburg Bridge.