The Bad Samaritan

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

Author's Note: I got my usual edit on this story and then dramatically changed the content. I take responsibility for any and all grammatical mistakes in this one. As usual with my work, this is a weird one that strains the boundaries of believability. Still hope you enjoy. No one under 18 had sex.

THE LETTER FROM MY WIFE

"Foster, I don't know why you chose to do what you did, but I can't let you take me down with you. I have been cursed, spit on, slapped, hit and both my car and our house has been vandalized. On the advice of my family and friends I am filing for divorce and moving away. Please don't try and contact me.

"I know you want me to believe your side of the story about what went on with you and that girl, but there seems to be no evidence to back up your story. I really wanted to believe your story, honestly, I did. You may think I am a coward for deserting you, but I see it as being realistic about protecting my future. It looks like you will be in jail a long, long time. I am happy now that we did not have children who would have to grow up in the shadow of your shame.

"My feelings are too raw right now I can't write anymore. I hope the other prisoners don't treat you too badly. Good-bye.

"Barbara."

MY STORY

'The Bad Samaritan,' that's what they called me in the news media. That was also the nicest thing most people said about me. Most people would rate beating seal pups to death as better than what I was alleged to have done. According to them, I had taken advantage of horrible situation and made it worse. Hell after my death wasn't punishment enough for some. Let me start from the beginning and tell you what really happened.

I am Foster Bachman, your regular guy in most aspects for the first 23 years of my life. The ironic thing was that I had been known for having a giving heart, note the past tense 'had.' I spent a lot of my spare time working with charities and charity fundraising because I liked to. I was a sucker for panhandlers and sob stories. It made me feel good inside and people seemed to appreciate my efforts. I was even given the Good Samaritan Award in my senior year in college for organizing a volunteer tutoring program in a ghetto community center.

At the time of the incident my story is based on, I was twenty-three years old and had been married to Barbara for two years. I tried to fool myself that I wasn't the consolation prize when her fiancé knocked up another girl a month prior to what was to be her wedding day. He married the girl he made pregnant. Barbara came running to me for sympathy and revenge sex. I was the proverbial best friend who secretly lusted for her. Figuring her feelings were a rebound from being dumped, I put off making a commitment to her as long as I could. Eventually, she convinced me that she really loved me and would be my faithful wife and mother of our children forever and ever. She convinced me orally, anally, and most every position I could think of. She had me. I had always loved her from our days in high school on. We got married. I didn't have enough lasting love for both of us as it turned out.

My troubles with Barbara began when she found out her former fiancé had gotten a divorce. Suddenly, I felt like a NASCAR racer who just got passed in the backstretch, almost winning, but no checkered flag. She assured me that I was worried for no reason. Barbara was just consoling an old friend. She swore she was still faithful to our marriage. I guess that all the new 'fault-finding' she was doing with me was just my imagination and her increased visits to her hometown where her ex-fiancé lived was a mere coincidence.

Barbara and I lived together in town, but in stressful times I liked to hang out in an old farmhouse that my grandparents lived in. It was more like a partially-modernized cabin. The farm attached had been sold to someone else years ago. The buyers didn't want the house or the cost of tearing it down and the wetlands made it impossible to use part of the property for commercial use. I was able to keep the acre the house was on. No one else in the family wanted it, so I bought it for close to nothing. He house was in bad shape but had good bones, as they say. With relatively no carpentry skills, I spent about $20,0000 making the repairs myself that should only have cost $10,000 if I had known what I was doing. But I had fun learning as I went despite the grief I caught from my wife as a waste of time and money.

I was proud when I finished, and I looked forward to enjoying the quiet and solitude of my rural castle with a good cigar and vintage brandy while Barbara stayed at home or was visiting her 'family.' That sanctuary was where I was returning to on that fateful night.

The road to my farmhouse was an old county road with potholes so old some have historical markers for them. Part of living where I did made it imperative to remember where each pothole was and how to best avoid it. First time drivers often needed an alignment job after zigging when they should have zagged on the road.

I was a little surprised when I came upon a car I did not recognize. Then I remembered I hadn't reached Passion Ridge where some local kids liked to come and make-out. I could see that a man or boy was driving, and a woman or girl was in the middle. The car had bucket seats, so it was unlikely she had her seatbelt on. I laughed as he hit pothole after pothole along the way, causing his car to shake and rattle and her to bounce and probably hit her head on the car ceiling. My laughter soon stopped.

The driver seemed anxious to get to Passion Ridge which was probably the cause of his hitting Mason's Pothole (the first part of a local legend) at too high a speed. His car's steering got jerked sharply to the right and he wound up slamming into Mason's Tree (the second part of a local legend). Like with Mason many years earlier, the results were tragic. My heart was racing as I stopped and ran over to the car. I looked in the driver's side first. There was blood all over the man's face and the air bag that had deployed. I checked his neck for a pulse. There was none.

As I was checking his pulse, I noticed the girl was not in the car and the passenger door was open. I scampered around the car and scanned the surrounding area until I saw her body where she had been thrown from the car. Her torso was bloody and contorted, but she was breathing. Pieces of glass were stuck several places in her body. She was barely conscious and dark red blood was coming out of one corner of her mouth. Suddenly, I had a weird, totally random thought: Her acne scarred face would now have bigger scars to worry about.

When she moaned, my mind was brought back into the here and now. I knew she was still alive, although barely so. I lied in a soothing voice and told her 'to hang in there' and that she was going to be all right. Although I knew there was no cell service in this area, I tried 911 anyway. No luck. I decided to do what I could to comfort the girl until help arrived, if it ever did. The Sheriff's office was known to send a car to chase off lovers ever since the Sheriff's daughter got pregnant there last year.

The injured girl was hysterical and made me tell her about what happened to the boy who was driving. When I told her he had died, she sobbed deeply. Soon after, she kept trying to say something else. I couldn't hear her well, so I put my ear close to her mouth.

"I was going to give him my virginity tonight."

I was shocked that given the serious injuries she had sustained that she chose her virginity to be the most important topic she wanted to talk about. I told her not to worry, she would live to have plenty of chances to lose her virginity in the future. Now I realize how stupid I must have sounded since women can only lose their virginity once.

She cried out in a determined whisper, "You don't understand. I don't want to die a virgin." Her plea sounded sincere, desperate and sincere. She shook her head 'No' when I assured her that she would be okay if she just stayed awake. I claimed help was on the way.

"Damnit, I know I'm dying. Please grant me a last wish. Look at me! I have always been considered too ugly to get many dates, much less have a steady boyfriend. Earlier in the week I celebrated my 18

th

birthday and I paid Keith to have sex with me tonight. Now he can't. Before it's too late I beg you, take my virginity. I want to know what sex with a man is like before I die. Please."

Holy Shit! Before I was screwing Barbara, it usually took me months of dating and gradual increases in fondling before I ever got to have sex with a girl. Now a stranger was offering sex to me. My morals compelled me to respond that I just couldn't take advantage of her. I added that I was married. Immediately, I thought how ironic it was that my wife was probably cheating on me without being begged.

She ordered me to take off her clothes. I thought that the confinement of her dress might be causing her discomfort in breathing, so I agreed to unzip the back of her dress to release some pressure on her chest. She then asked me to take off the dress. I said I ethically couldn't do that. My sense of honor, however, was getting weaker.

"Please. I'm dying. I desperately want to feel a man inside me at least once." She pulled down the top of her dress which showed she had not worn a bra that night. Her small breasts with their prominent nipples were exposed. When she pulled up her dress, I saw she had no panties on her large rear either. She started crying. "Please." It was heart-breaking.

"I'm sorry. It's just not right. I can't do it." I looked at her broken body and bloody places. I wanted to help her, but the one thing she wanted me to do, I couldn't.

She got angry at me. "Listen up good, buster. Your wife or no one else will ever know. But I promise that if you don't fuck me now, tonight, my ghost will haunt you the rest of your miserable life." That look in her eye made me believe she was serious about her threat.

She began an unnerving groaning from her pain. I gave in. Her plea seemed so genuine, and I was sure Barbara was probably renewing her love life with her ex-fiance at this very moment. The winning argument for my compliance, however, was that no one else would ever know but the two of us. There was a sudden doubt on my part that I might disappoint her sexually. What a shame that her only instance of sex might be a lousy fuck. Then I realized that the girl wouldn't know since she hasn't had anyone to compare me with. It's amazing what crazy things can come to mind in a stressful situation.

I paused to look down at the naked young woman lying on the hard ground before me one last time before acting. She was certainly not wrong about her face being ugly nor did not have anywhere close to the finest body I had ever seen. Her breasts were so tiny she was almost flat-chested. Her genital area was covered with a large, untrimmed, wild-looking bush. Her ass was definitely a double wide.

Because of the blood on her lips, I started my rescue mission by kissing and sucking her pencil eraser sized nipples. She said, "No, stick it in me now. I don't think I have enough time for foreplay."

My dick, however, didn't want to cooperate. I guessed it was still being directed by the righteous side of my brain that was saying, 'Don't do it.' I kept telling myself it would be a supreme act of kindness to give her what she wanted. I had to masturbate to get my penis ready even with the sight of her naked female body in front of me.

The first time I tried to stick my finally hard penis in, I realized she was too dry for intercourse. I wasn't proficient in cunnilingus, but I knew how to get my saliva into her vagina. Soon, after several dozen quick licks, I was able to slide my cock into her. Even with my lubrication, she was still very tight. When I reached what I assumed was her hymen, she said, 'Now!' I thrust forcefully. I felt it break and she said, "Thank you." I proceeded to moving my penis in and out. The girl started saying, 'Faster.' I think she was trying to counter the thrusts I was making but she was just too weak. I did hear what I thought were pleasurable groans from her, and I'm pretty sure she orgasmed a few seconds before I did. Her body jerked anyway. I was so immersed in finishing my own ejaculation and continuing the pleasure I was feeling, I didn't hear the approach of what I later learned was Deputy Sheriff Erikson. I did, however, feel the smack to my head from his two-foot metal flashlight. I was knocked unconscious.

I awoke in a hospital bed to which I was handcuffed. Deputy Sheriff Erikson was standing over me. He informed me that he was the one who found us and hit me. He asked, "How do you feel?"

"Okay, but . . . " This time it was his fist that turned out my lights.

When I woke up the next time, I peeked through my eyelids first to make sure the Deputy was not around. I saw a nurse. I said 'Hello.' The nurse looked menacingly at me. It was as if she thought I had raped a cadaver, which was exactly what I was being charged with. She left and soon a different Deputy came in.

"Foster Bachman, you are under arrest for rape and having sex with a cadaver. You, you piece of shit, have the right to remain silent . . ."

"Deputy, I know my rights. It's a big misunderstanding. She asked me . . . "

"Shut up, you pervert! I don't really want to hear it. You were caught with your pecker in the corpse by Deputy Erikson. Dead people can't give you consent. As soon as they clear you to leave the hospital, you're headed to jail where I hope you stay until you rot."

"But she was alive when we had sex. She asked me to. I didn't want to, but she begged me."

"I tell you what. Stick to that story and kiss your ass good-bye for a long, long time. Actually, it may not be that long. Guys in prison don't like men who fuck dead girls."

"But . . ."

I was booked, arraigned and given the chance to find an attorney. Guess what? Not an attorney in town would take my case. When I came in front of the judge, he asked where my attorney was. I told him none would take it. The judge ordered a lawyer to take it. The lawyer was fresh out of law school and told me flat out that he planned to do little more than to assure I got my day in court. I knew he thought I was guilty too.

The media made sure there was a lynch mob mentality among the community. I asked for a judge and not a jury trial. There probably weren't twelve people in the community who would not volunteer to tie a hangman's knot, much less vote guilty. I had already been convicted by the court of public opinion. You really want to know how bad it was?

I already told you my wife deserted me. What I didn't tell you is that she depleted our bank accounts on the way out of town. Well, I was also fired from my job which was weird because I worked for my dad. My parents acted like I didn't exist anymore. My Good Samaritan Award was revoked. My church excommunicated me. Absolutely no one that mattered believed my story. And all that occurred before I had my day in court. The girl's parents were waiting until my conviction to file a civil suit against me. The silver fillings in my teeth were at risk.

There were people who advocated my release from jail, but they did not argue that I was innocent. Their argument was that a lynching would be the most appropriate thing to happen to me. The only controversy was whether or not to castrate me before killing me. Even then it was 75% for castration first, versus 25% for just boiling me in oil.

My day in court was just that -- one day. The District Attorney presented the testimony of Deputy Erikson who said he saw me abusing the corpse. The Medical Examiner testified that my semen was inside her although he could not swear for certain if she was alive or dead at the time. In his 'expert' opinion, however, she was most likely dead. Then there was the former girlfriend, not Barbara at least, who said she had dumped me because I wanted her to just lie like a dead person when we had sex. People who had worked with me in the tutoring program said they thought it was creepy how I was always touching the kids I tutored. Great, with the rumor the girl I had sex with was under 18, now I would be seen as a pedophile besides being a necrophiliac in everyone's eyes.

My meager defense was limited to my testimony. My word was worth less than the cost of a breath of polluted air. I tried a unique defense: I told the truth: A girl, over 18, dying from a car wreck asked me to take her virginity before she died. I didn't want to but gave in to her impassioned pleas. I assumed she must have died shortly after orgasming. I had committed adultery but that was it.

One look at the judge after I testified, and I knew I didn't have a chance. I was found guilty. I got the maximum sentence.

Although I had never raped a woman, I sure found out what rape felt like. In prison I was the bitch of several men. My pleas for protection from the guards were never respected. Oh, I fought, but I always lost although I got better at fighting each time. I worked out with weights and took boxing lessons from an inmate between beatings to increase the cost of my beatings to them. I can't tell you how many dicks I sucked or how many cocks and other things entered my ass hole. I can tell you that one time was too many and that more than that didn't make much difference. I was pretty well numbed towards being used for sex before long. Eventually after several years, new, younger, prettier boys took the attention of the men who were paying a steeper price each time they tortured me. I guess I became the old, ugly, diseased hooker no one wanted if I continued to fight back. Thank God for small favors.

Most of my time in prison, I worked in the motor pool during the day. Prison cars, guard's private cars, and town people with connections got vehicles fixed at bargain prices if they were charged anything at all. I had worked for my father in his auto repair business, so I kept up my skills when the newer model cars provided new challenges. I also learned to repair motorbikes which were becoming popular again. I planned to get a bike when I got out of prison, if I ever got out.

I did not get my hopes up when they said I was up for getting out in a month. Some group of law students had taken on my case as a project. I guess they figured that if they were able to prove my innocence, it would be a great career booster for them. It took several years and even though they wound up not proving my innocence, they clouded the picture enough that with their constant harassment of the governor, he commuted my sentence to time served. The lawyers were disappointed I was not thrilled at hearing of my imminent release and I was not singing their praises. My ability to hope for release had been disengaged from my brain. I kept telling myself that I had heard of too many cases where they were either wrong or deliberately trying to torture the prisoner by getting his hopes up only to dash his hopes. I had heard of a couple of suicides because of that practice. I lived life one moment at a time and I never expected the next day to hold any more promise than the last day or even if I would live to see another day.

It wasn't until my body was physically outside the last gate of the prison that I truly believed I was free. FREE. A word that originally was valuable to me was now a meaningless word to represent a meaningless future. Oh, I was 'free' alright. Free to be cursed at, beaten, shunned, blackballed, and so on although by civilians now instead of prisoners. I was free to register as a necrophiliac and wonder when my neighbors would find out and harass me until I moved. I had nothing to look forward to and almost no money left after I declared bankruptcy paying off the civil suit to the girl's parents. I was waiting for the halfway house van to take me to the city when a car drove up.