Randy's Slutty Trailertrash Wife

WARNING LABEL: Seeing as I keep getting complaints from a minority of readers who wander into my stories expecting refined erotic literature - as if! - I feel obliged to tack a WARNING LABEL on this chapter. This ain't "Literature."

I am not some cultivated geisha. I am not a college educated $1000 an hour Manhattan call girl.

I am barely college educated at all. I finished high school and took in 10 credits, mostly in English courses, at an east Texas community college. That's all the formal learning I've got under my glossy hot pink, two-inch wide vinyl belt.

My stories are my guilty pleasures, and yours if you're into tales about low-income, working class, country folk with low morals and self-destructive habits - not that all low-income country folk are that way but a shitload of us are.

My characters are shallow people because my friends are shallow people and so am I! I hang with mechanics, plumbers, bartenders, general contract laborers and an occassionaly drug dealer or pimp.

Our pleasures are simple and cheap. We watch trashy talk shows, drink cases of beer, and wrestling is a sport!

We've been known to cavort naked in the bayou, and we fuck like there's no tomorrow!

I'm not some dainty, paint-brushed, skinny Internet porn queen. I'm a working mama with real curves, stretch marks and broke-in breasts. I don't have a flat tummy and have given up hope of ever having one.

As a slut, I'm a late bloomer. I got the Devil's religion at age 30.

Some reader's express doubts that such a creature as I could exist or that my life would be an interesting read, yet somehow they don't have a problem with the fact that there are millions of "ladies" displaying themselves on the Internet doing hardcore porn, or that Jerry Springer marches up his stage an endless parade of women who make questionable decisions about what they do with their bodies and what they do with the men in their lives, or that domestic violence is epidemic in this nation and a ton of that has to do with sexual exploitation and the women that gladly put up with it.

I went through a phase where I was slutting and whoring hardcore for 20 months. I'm taking a break now, but I can tell you from my experience and from the women I've since partied with over the past almost three years now, there are sluts everywhere. Nasty bitches, and they're proud of it!

If any of these comments offend your refined senses, read no further. It don't get better. You're wasting your time.

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"SPRING CLEANING AND A VISIT FROM IMELDA"

I was cleaning the house on a Friday afternoon, the week after I got that devoted man of God to fuck me in my bed and cry his guilt-ridden eyes out while his white pecker wilted in my pussy after cumming up my semen depository.

The special significance of that statement should be dissected into two parts.

First part, I was cleaning our single-wide trailer abode, not something I do every day or even once a week. It's more like once a month.

And on this occassion I was especially motivated - and not by the fact that my dear hubby had a "date" scheduled for me the next evening. My dates hardly notice the condition of our living quarters. They are too busy oggling my impure white flesh and poking their hard-ons into every hole I've got.

No, I was motivated by the Friday morning delivery of a package I had ordered off a cable TV shopping channel.

Two bottles with orange scented liquid guaranteed to clean everything, magically converting my hog pen into a citrus scented, nostril pleasing, sparkling bright as diamonds, sterile environment fit for a country clubbing rich woman's baby to crawl around in.

The box came. I said, "Yes!" I flirted with the delivery driver in my baggy house shorts and skimpy tank top.

I wiggled my wide hips in front of him like I was ready to throw myself on him, but just long enough to give him a boner, then sent him on his poor sexually frustrated way. Then I said to myself, "I gotta call the diner. Gotta call in sick. I'm gonna clee-eee-eeen!"

Now normally I'm a slob. Piles of dirty clothes and kids toys all over the house. Piles of junk mail on the kitchen counter, piles of dishes in the sink and on the counter and on the stove. Piles of beer cans around the garbage can. Dust and grime and dried food coated on counters, cum-crusted sheets and the stink of sweat, decaying food crap, and the musky aroma of semen. Grey windows, crusty, spotted faucets. The shit's everywhere.

There's even mold growing in every fourth tupperware tub of leftovers in the fridge, but everybody's got that problem, right?

Well, once awhile I gets me motivated. I just get so sick of it all. Gotta clean! And it helps if "motivation" comes Special Delivery in a package brought to my door rusting off the hinges by a sexy man in shorts. Oh, those hard, hairy legs! Mmmm.

Need I mention it? Cable shopping is inspirational. You should try it.

Second part: By Friday afternoon, I am in a state of heightened sexual anxiety. It wasn't easy resisting the urge to offer the delivery man a blowjob. But I made a promise to myself shortly after my first gangbang to avoid sex during the week. It's a promise I break occassionally - the Edmond affair with my church's youth director is a case in point - but most of the time I keep to it, especially with Randy.

That husband of mine needs to suffer once in awhile, don't you know?

Putting myself on a 'sex diet,' I believe, makes the weekend sex party more pleasureable. Instead of 'snacking' during the week, my attention is focused on what is going to happen to me on Saturday nights.

Saturday nights didn't always go well. Some of the men I was introduced to were lousy sex partners. I would request that they not be invited back, but that request was not always respected. But even a semi-hard cock is better than none when I haven't had any for seven days and nights.

Back to Friday, I'm working my broad butt off, bending over, getting to my knees, crawling on all fours, stroking this, rubbing that, sweating like a Mexican whore working a soccer team, and not a cock in sight. I was putting my fingers and rags into the most seldom seen netherworldly places: behind the toilet, under the garbage can, below the kitchen sink trap, along the running boards and a jillion other disgusting spots.

Wiping wallpaper, mopping linoleum, swiping window sills - all those moldy corners and cracks. Polishing pipe and in between it all catching up on load after load of laundry. Four hours of this and I'm plumb wore out when the phone rings.

It's Imelda, Chuey's better half. I'm beating her to the first word and going on about my cleansing experience, and inwardly happy 'cuz I've wore out my sexual anxiety. All the scrubbing just to get the obsessive mantra of "Gotta fuck, gotta fuck, gotta fuck," quieted down in my screwy head.

I'm back into my decent, righteous mind and she calls, which is mentally dangerous for me 'cuz she's liable to talk about some dirty sex. She's such a gossip about who's fucking who, so I'm not too eager to keep this conversation going. But on most occasions, I'd be greatful for her company. Since joining her circle of wicked friends, Imelda had become my most trusted counselor and a true friend. Most of the women that visited on our Saturday romps were true whores, girl sluts much younger than Imelda or me, and I could see Imelda was as uncomfortable with most of them as I was.

Most importantly, Imelda did more than anyone to advise me and help protect me in containing the influence of Roland the pimp.

Roland, an ever-present malevolent force, had too much influence over my husband. Randy, I swear, looked up to Roland, like he was some fucking role model. And Roland was giving my Randy young black bitch pussy on the side whenever Randy wanted it. It was part of their arrangement that gave Roland a say in who I fucked.

I feared, personally feared, Roland.

He had a way of dealing with me, talking to me and dominating my space that made me weak. I felt he could see in my eyes that if he were to force his will on me, I'd leave Randy some day to be just another one of his streetwalkers, just so I could - what? How did he make me want to take the punishment he dished out?

He brought the masochist in me out more than anyone and made me hate myself more than anyone. Imelda was the 'Angel' at my shoulder, balancing out the 'Devil' on my other side. She was my interceptor, helping to keep distance between me and that evil man.

My fear of Roland began with how he treated me on that first gangbang, and how intimidating he was not just to me but with the people around me. What made it all worse was an incident two weeks later. He called me up. I was alone. He was talking dirty to me, trying to engage me in phone sex. I would not hang up on him as I should have. I just kept listening to him and begging him to let me be:

"You gonna be my Ho, bitch," he said as if it was a foregone conclusion.

"Nooo," I whined.

"Yeahhh, I know you want somme more ah what I put up yo pussy, bitch. I knows a Ho when I seez one and I knows a Ho fo certain when I fuck her like I fucked you, Terry. You wanna strut yo shit in front my boyz, dontcha? Wanna give it away to alla the bruthas."

"No, nooo, leave me be, Roland," I'd tell him. "You fucked up cracker slut, getchyer big white ass ovuh here. I'm making a booty call on yer moneymaker, bitch!" he demanded.

He got me horny. He got me wet and begging him to stop, but I wouldn't cut him off. He just kept talking shit to me for 45 minutes and I just kept listening to it and getting weaker. It got to where I couldn't resist anymore and I gave in and drove to his place.

I dressed down to red bikini shorts, a pink tube top with a white mini-vest, red vinyl hi-heels, a push-up black bra and black thongs. Roland wanted me to show up looking like a ho ready for work.

Roland's place is a bar half-way to Houston, in the northeast suburbs. It's a 35-minute drive from my trailer.

The ground floor is a bar with pool tables. There's a second floor with six bedrooms, three on either side of a long hall that you reach from a set of stairs in the far back of the bar. You get to the stairs by leaving the bar and going into a storage room.

I kept thinking the whole way that he was going to imprison me in a room and force me to smoke crack until I was hooked. But then I'd reassure myself that it wouldn't happen that way, that he wouldn't dare mess with a woman from his hometown 'cuz a lotta menfolk close to him would retaliate.

I must've been in a self-destructive state of mind. I can only explain the fascination as being like watching a horror movie and then wanting to be in the horror movie. I was obsessed with the danger, with the risk-taking, with the adrenalin and sexually charged excitement that came with being in the presence of true evil.

By the time I walked into the bar, I was ready to cum at his very touch. I had butterflies so bad I could barely stand. My hands shook, my knees wobbled, I walked like a baby fawn, wobbling into the cool darkness.

There were eight men in the bar, all black. I saw two black whores paying attention to two men in separate corners. Roland was playing pool with another black man. He turned and saw me as I walked in.

"Terry. See ya got over yo inhibitions. Mmmm, come ovah here my fine, hot white mama."

I wobbled up to him, shivering like a wet cat.

"You cold, Terry," he asked.

I shook my head no, tried to say something but words failed me.

Roland snaked around my waist - long fingers, hand, arm, pulling me to him and we tongue-kissed. His mouth and tongue were thick and rich as fine chocolate. He smelled of whiskey and marijuana. He spanked my ass, laughed as I jerked and pushed me toward his pool-playing partner.

"Get a taste o' this one, Slinky," he said.

Slinky, a tall and skinny mulatto, curled both hands on my asscheeks and kissed me for a long time. I gave in and felt the crotch of my shorts get wetter. I felt shame rise in my chest and I blushed as I let this stranger arouse me.

His cock hardened against my belly and I let him squeeze me tight. I was then gently shoved aside and they resumed their game. They left me standing there panting. There was money on the table. They were gambling over this game for what looked like a couple hundred dollars. They whooped and talked trash at every pool stick strike and realignment of balls. In the end, Roland lost and offered Slinky a choice, me or the money.

Slinky took the money, smiled at me, "No offense, bitch, but I gots rent to pay." "None taken," I said, matter of factly, but my pussy was aching with regret and my thoughts were in bed with devils.

Roland took my hand and led me into the back and up the stairs. We went through the first bedroom door I saw and it was a simple room, about 15 by 15 feet square with a queen size bed on a wooden frame, no backboard.

There was a closet door and a dresser, a green plastic mixing bowl on top and full of condoms. There were some used condoms on the floor. The walls were painted a pastel yellow.

"Strip," the pimp said.

I pulled off my top and bra. I shimmied out of my tight little shorts and he stroked his thick long black cock in his pants. I kicked off my hi-heels and he motioned me to get out of my thongs, so I did that and dropped them on the floor. I was naked and alone with the man I most feared. I never felt so vulnerable in my miserable life.

He instructed me to get on my knees and blow him. I did and pulled out his cock and sucked and I did my best to arouse him, not that that was hard. It went well for a few minutes, but then he took my head in his hands and started force fucking me, skull fucking me until I gagged and puked up a little bile onto the wooden floor.

I'd tell you the rest, but it's too painful for me to want to recall. Imagine how he treated me in my house with other men to watch out for me, and then imagine what he would do to me where I was alone and unprotected, with no one to hear my screams.

Roland likes to fuck women mean. He wants it to hurt. He likes to slap and curse and he takes it too far.

He had me crying by the 5th minute. He had me bleeding and bruised in the first 30 minutes. He was done with me after two hours.

Did I cum? Yes. But his phone calls went unanswered after that. I couldn't bear the thought of being around him without a trustworthy chaperone. My fascination with him was still there, but my fear of him was strong enough that I never responded to another booty call. And I learned how to hang up the phone.

I don't want to recall the sex, but I remember the drive home. Pounding the steering wheel, screaming at the top of my lungs with the music full blast, sobbing in shuddering heaves. "Why, why, why did I put myself through that," I yelled.

My motives seemed clearer in the aftermath. A bruised pussy, long scratches and welts and bruising on my tits, my neck, my ass and upper thighs. A flaming red and swollen left eye that would turn black in the coming days.

He tried to make me drink whiskey, smoke pot. I refused. I wanted to be in my straight mind. After the puking on the floor, after I was put on that whore's bed, once he had me stuck under him and taking his long fat snake, he called in a whore and had her light up a pipe and forced me to smoke crack. I inhaled. I had not choice. I was boiling with fear, cursing myself for thinking this would go any other way. He wanted to make me into her image in every way.

It was my obsession with evil itself. My terrible desire, like some bootcamp bitch masochist with a need to know if I could take it. How far could I take it? How much of him could I possibly want?

I fucked him on crack, my legs dangling off the edge of the bed. He was like a black boulder, pinning me down, humping my hole while my head exploded in evil euphoria, celebrating my damnation in one insanely long moment, then recovering my fear of losing all things good in the world and trying to claw back out of this slippery pit to hell.

The devil had a weighty anchor shoved up my cunt and it was dragging me down, down, down, down. He had his big feet rooted to the floor and my pussy in the fire at the edge of total slavery. He'd grin and squeeze his pot-yellowed dirty nails into my flesh. Fuck and squeeze, watch me squeal like the stuck pig slut I was.

It brought tears to my eyes that he KNEW that I SURRENDERED myself to him, KNOWING he would treat me this way.

He could make me cum! OMG! Those cracked-up hyperdrive orgasms were braincell blasting, body and soul excruciating sizzlers. I was electrified to fried.

Every twenty minutes or so, it was hard to tell, time expanded and contracted like a rubber band, the crack smoke was forced into my lungs again.

This wasn't love making in any sense of the word. This was a methodical transformation through constant fucking, pinching, slapping, scratching, addiction-inducing crack smoking, derogatory yelling - "Git bizzy Ho. Git yo ass moving Ho, fuck bitch, suck that pipe HO o' I'll blow it down yo lungs my own seff, bitch. Lazy fuckbitch, work it!

Un! You like that snake white bitch. You loves that snake white bitch. Who ya master now, cunt? Who is it!"

He was brainwashing me: mind, flesh and spirit wrapping themselves around the slavery he made feel so inevitable.

I was sinking and the escape hatch looked hopelessly far, far away.

If Roland had kept me there all day as he intended, I'd be his sex slave today.

But, thank my guardian angel, he was distracted by a scuffle that broke out in his parking lot that drew in the police. I tore outta there and never went back.

Never go back!

It took me a couple of weeks of self-imposed isolation and soul-searching to get that crack out of my system, but that's another story. * * * * * Back to the (Present):

Anywho, my problem with Imelda was her presence could be very sensual. I always envied her lean body and we normally enjoyed sharing all the dirty gossip about who fucked who, and comparing impressions on the sexuality of various men we had shared.

Now, she claimed she just wanted to do my nails. She loved painting nails and she liked being with me.

But her being around was likely to re-stimulate me and I had put so much effort into relaxing and NOT thinking about sex.

"I can't. I'm busy sweety," I protested on the phone. She wouldn't take a "No." I said, "no, no, no!"

She was bored and I was keeping a secret from her, "and girlfriend, curtain's gotta come up!" I threw the complimentary super microfiber cloth in the sink and trotted my sore, jiggly, stinking white body to the shower.

I was in a blue terrycloth bathrobe with my blonde hair wrapped in a honey colored towel, looking like a saggy beehive when Imelda walked through the front door, without announcing herself.

"You must think your family now," I said with a twang of sarcasm as I lay on the sofa resting. "Huh?" says she, standing there in the middle of my clean living room, surveying the transformation with wide eyes.

"You don't bother knocking or nuthin," I observed.

"Like you ain't gonna know it's me. Shit, bitch, this place is someplace else. Where's your trailer, Terry?"

"Hey, it would be the polite thing to do," I said.

"What?" She wasn't registering my annoyance. Then she did and turned her head toward the screen door; she hadn't closed the fake-wood door. "Fuck polite," she yelled. "I eat your pussy, bitch!"

"Dammit," I screeched in a low hiss. That got me up. I got between her and the door and closed it. "What, yer neighbors don't know yer a slut yet?" she said.

I hissed, "I got my angel in her room, Imelda." She made an eeK! face and apologized.