Straight Female / 18
My mom and step-dad had finally had enough of my not abiding by their rules. It was bad enough I smoked and cursed and hung out with a group of friends that included atheists, homosexuals and worst of all (from my parents point of view) Democrats that had voted for Obama. But now I was coming home at 3 a.m. smelling of booze.
It didn't really matter that I wasn't drunk and in fact hadn't drank a drop at the graduation party I attended. And my excuse for being late, namely the fact that my ride's car had broken down on the freeway on the way back home, stranding us until Triple A could send a mechanic, fell on deaf ears.
I was a "problem child" or so my mother's best friend, the neighborhood's resident know it all (she watched a lot of Dr. Phil) had convinced her. And the only solution was "tough love". So they kicked me out onto the streets, telling me to ask one of my friends to give me a place to stay.
Well, I didn't think that would be a problem. Only as it turned out it was. My friends all had excuses for being unable to help me out. It's funny how fast friends who drunkenly tell you how much they love you and will always have your back, turn into strangers the moment you need help.
I was on my own and I damn sure wasn't going to give my parents the satisfaction of my returning home and begging for my old room back. So I walked to a bus bench beside a Taco Bell I had walked to a thousand times in my life and sat down. I thought and then I cried and then I thought some more as day faded into early evening. I didn't have a dime in my pocket, I hadn't eaten in 24 hours and my head was pounding from all the crying I'd done.
That was when a truck pulled up beside me and the window rolled down. I recognized the guy inside. It was Fatso, this one guy who used to live next door. My friends and I used to really be mean and rude to him. But he kind of deserved it, at least we thought so. He was a pig. He had to weigh 350 pounds easy, and he was always sweaty. I mean even in the middle of winter he would sweat at the slightest exertion. He wore thick glasses for his near-sightedness and he was going bald. He also shopped off the rack at Walmart. I'd never seen him in anything other than cheap Jeans and T-shirts with Muppets, or superheroes or Star Trek drawings on them.
He remembered me even though he'd been out of the neighborhood for a couple of years, and asked me what was wrong. I was in no mood to talk to him but I was hungry and it would be night soon and so I was a little scared. I explained my predicament and asked if he could loan me cash for a room somewhere. He said no, he couldn't. But he could buy me food and let me crash on his couch. I accepted the food, but turned down the couch. He had perv written all over him. But by the time I ate the meal he bought me it was full on dark and I decided there was no way I was staying on the bus bench all night (although part of me thought it was serve my parents right if I did get raped or murdered because they wouldn't let me come home - it felt good imagining my mother screaming and crying over my mangled body).
Fatso let me climb into the cab of his truck and we drove to his place. He was playing the fucking soundtrack to John Carter of Mars instead of music. I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore the smell of day old sweat and feet that permeated the truck.
When we arrived at his house which was about two miles from our old neighborhood he excitedly gave me a tour of the place. I took it he didn't get many visitors. I saw his collection of MicroMachine Star Trek ships, his "valuable" bagged and boarded comics and an entire room full of action figures and toys he repeatedly referred to as "collectibles" and "investments". When I mumbled that some people invested in stocks and bonds instead of G.I. Joe and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles he giggled. He fucking giggled.
He showed me the couch in the living room. A mangy Siamese cat was sleeping on it and it was covered in cat hair. Then he brought me an extra blanket and pillow, both of which smelled like he did. I reconsidered the street, then heard gun shots in the distance and sighed. I really hoped my mother had heard those and was imagining me lying in the gutter somewhere bleeding. I said thanks and sat down. I wasn't tired yet. So we watched tv.
After watching The Walking Dead (which he kept telling me was the "awesomest show on television") and some junk on SyFy like Warehouse 13 and Alphas, he finally excused himself to go to bed and dimmed the lights. I did my best to swat as much cat hair from the couch as possible. I ended up leaving the blanket and pillow on the floor and using a couch cushion for a head rest.
When I woke up the next morning he was gone to work but he left a note telling me to help myself to anything I wanted in the kitchen. I took my morning piss and then went into the kitchen, where he had an actual Coke vending machine plugged in beside the fridge. I pushed the Sprite button and a can of Sprite clunked out of the bottom slot. Ok, I thought. That's pretty cool anyway. Then I opened the fridge. He had everything and lots of it. And I'm not talking baloney and salami and a little pasteurized processed cheese product, he had high end gourmet food. I was starving. I grabbed a plate and ate until my stomach hurt, then helped myself to another Sprite. Just as I was about to leave (I was writing him a thank you note), his truck pulled up in the driveway and I frowned. Fuck! I didn't want to say goodbye and thanks in person.
He walked in smiling from ear to ear, and he actually had a suit on. He was also holding flowers. They were for me. Awkward... I said thanks, and complimented his suit (he said he'd skipped work that morning and drove to the mall just for the suit) and then told him I had to leave. He looked disappointed but told me if I ever needed anything come back or call, he wrote down a number and put it in my hand. Ten minutes later I was walking down the sidewalk glad to be free again.
I spent most of that day trying without success to find a place to sleep. This time when night fell I went to the women's shelter and got a bed. I had been there about a week when Fatso showed up one day. I asked him what he wanted and he made me a proposition. He said he knew I didn't like him and could never love him, but that he was crazy about me. He said he didn't just work at a company everyday, he owned the company. His father had left it to him and he had a lot of money in the bank. If I agreed to live with him there was nothing he wouldn't do for me. I could have a new car, new clothes, jewelery. I could flaunt it all in my parents faces. He'd even give me a weekly cash allowance besides the stuff he'd buy. All I had to do was share his home, and.... his bed.
At first I acted insulted and asked him if he thought I was a whore?? He asked me to not think of it that way. Think of it as a business proposition. We could even draw up a contract he said. It's legality would be dubious, but if it made me think of it in a better light. Then he showed me a wad of $100 bills as thick as my wrist and told me he had a lot more of those in the bank.
You know what?? I figured what the hell. I agreed.
Over the past several months I've cleaned him up (I insist he bathe twice a day, he had only been showering twice a week before). Now I pick his clothes, I make sure he smells good and I've got him on a diet and exercise regimen to lose some weight. He's allowed to introduce me as his girlfriend when we go to social events together, but there is no PDA. He gets at minimum a nightly handjob and a guarantee of vaginal sex no fewer than twice a week, unless I'm menstruating. I'll give him head for extra cash in my weekly allowance.
I have a cute little Volkswagen in my favorite color, a wardrobe that makes my mother's look like it came from the thrift store donation pile and diamonds in my ear and gold around my wrist and neck.
I may not stay with him for long, but I'm good for now. I'm saving the allowances he gives me and as soon as I have enough to move to Colorado (I don't even know anyone there, I've just always wanted to live there) I'm gone. My mother calls me a whore. I call that bitch jealous. She married a pest control technician, I'm fucking a 41-year old nerd with a huge bank account. I win.
It didn't really matter that I wasn't drunk and in fact hadn't drank a drop at the graduation party I attended. And my excuse for being late, namely the fact that my ride's car had broken down on the freeway on the way back home, stranding us until Triple A could send a mechanic, fell on deaf ears.
I was a "problem child" or so my mother's best friend, the neighborhood's resident know it all (she watched a lot of Dr. Phil) had convinced her. And the only solution was "tough love". So they kicked me out onto the streets, telling me to ask one of my friends to give me a place to stay.
Well, I didn't think that would be a problem. Only as it turned out it was. My friends all had excuses for being unable to help me out. It's funny how fast friends who drunkenly tell you how much they love you and will always have your back, turn into strangers the moment you need help.
I was on my own and I damn sure wasn't going to give my parents the satisfaction of my returning home and begging for my old room back. So I walked to a bus bench beside a Taco Bell I had walked to a thousand times in my life and sat down. I thought and then I cried and then I thought some more as day faded into early evening. I didn't have a dime in my pocket, I hadn't eaten in 24 hours and my head was pounding from all the crying I'd done.
That was when a truck pulled up beside me and the window rolled down. I recognized the guy inside. It was Fatso, this one guy who used to live next door. My friends and I used to really be mean and rude to him. But he kind of deserved it, at least we thought so. He was a pig. He had to weigh 350 pounds easy, and he was always sweaty. I mean even in the middle of winter he would sweat at the slightest exertion. He wore thick glasses for his near-sightedness and he was going bald. He also shopped off the rack at Walmart. I'd never seen him in anything other than cheap Jeans and T-shirts with Muppets, or superheroes or Star Trek drawings on them.
He remembered me even though he'd been out of the neighborhood for a couple of years, and asked me what was wrong. I was in no mood to talk to him but I was hungry and it would be night soon and so I was a little scared. I explained my predicament and asked if he could loan me cash for a room somewhere. He said no, he couldn't. But he could buy me food and let me crash on his couch. I accepted the food, but turned down the couch. He had perv written all over him. But by the time I ate the meal he bought me it was full on dark and I decided there was no way I was staying on the bus bench all night (although part of me thought it was serve my parents right if I did get raped or murdered because they wouldn't let me come home - it felt good imagining my mother screaming and crying over my mangled body).
Fatso let me climb into the cab of his truck and we drove to his place. He was playing the fucking soundtrack to John Carter of Mars instead of music. I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore the smell of day old sweat and feet that permeated the truck.
When we arrived at his house which was about two miles from our old neighborhood he excitedly gave me a tour of the place. I took it he didn't get many visitors. I saw his collection of MicroMachine Star Trek ships, his "valuable" bagged and boarded comics and an entire room full of action figures and toys he repeatedly referred to as "collectibles" and "investments". When I mumbled that some people invested in stocks and bonds instead of G.I. Joe and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles he giggled. He fucking giggled.
He showed me the couch in the living room. A mangy Siamese cat was sleeping on it and it was covered in cat hair. Then he brought me an extra blanket and pillow, both of which smelled like he did. I reconsidered the street, then heard gun shots in the distance and sighed. I really hoped my mother had heard those and was imagining me lying in the gutter somewhere bleeding. I said thanks and sat down. I wasn't tired yet. So we watched tv.
After watching The Walking Dead (which he kept telling me was the "awesomest show on television") and some junk on SyFy like Warehouse 13 and Alphas, he finally excused himself to go to bed and dimmed the lights. I did my best to swat as much cat hair from the couch as possible. I ended up leaving the blanket and pillow on the floor and using a couch cushion for a head rest.
When I woke up the next morning he was gone to work but he left a note telling me to help myself to anything I wanted in the kitchen. I took my morning piss and then went into the kitchen, where he had an actual Coke vending machine plugged in beside the fridge. I pushed the Sprite button and a can of Sprite clunked out of the bottom slot. Ok, I thought. That's pretty cool anyway. Then I opened the fridge. He had everything and lots of it. And I'm not talking baloney and salami and a little pasteurized processed cheese product, he had high end gourmet food. I was starving. I grabbed a plate and ate until my stomach hurt, then helped myself to another Sprite. Just as I was about to leave (I was writing him a thank you note), his truck pulled up in the driveway and I frowned. Fuck! I didn't want to say goodbye and thanks in person.
He walked in smiling from ear to ear, and he actually had a suit on. He was also holding flowers. They were for me. Awkward... I said thanks, and complimented his suit (he said he'd skipped work that morning and drove to the mall just for the suit) and then told him I had to leave. He looked disappointed but told me if I ever needed anything come back or call, he wrote down a number and put it in my hand. Ten minutes later I was walking down the sidewalk glad to be free again.
I spent most of that day trying without success to find a place to sleep. This time when night fell I went to the women's shelter and got a bed. I had been there about a week when Fatso showed up one day. I asked him what he wanted and he made me a proposition. He said he knew I didn't like him and could never love him, but that he was crazy about me. He said he didn't just work at a company everyday, he owned the company. His father had left it to him and he had a lot of money in the bank. If I agreed to live with him there was nothing he wouldn't do for me. I could have a new car, new clothes, jewelery. I could flaunt it all in my parents faces. He'd even give me a weekly cash allowance besides the stuff he'd buy. All I had to do was share his home, and.... his bed.
At first I acted insulted and asked him if he thought I was a whore?? He asked me to not think of it that way. Think of it as a business proposition. We could even draw up a contract he said. It's legality would be dubious, but if it made me think of it in a better light. Then he showed me a wad of $100 bills as thick as my wrist and told me he had a lot more of those in the bank.
You know what?? I figured what the hell. I agreed.
Over the past several months I've cleaned him up (I insist he bathe twice a day, he had only been showering twice a week before). Now I pick his clothes, I make sure he smells good and I've got him on a diet and exercise regimen to lose some weight. He's allowed to introduce me as his girlfriend when we go to social events together, but there is no PDA. He gets at minimum a nightly handjob and a guarantee of vaginal sex no fewer than twice a week, unless I'm menstruating. I'll give him head for extra cash in my weekly allowance.
I have a cute little Volkswagen in my favorite color, a wardrobe that makes my mother's look like it came from the thrift store donation pile and diamonds in my ear and gold around my wrist and neck.
I may not stay with him for long, but I'm good for now. I'm saving the allowances he gives me and as soon as I have enough to move to Colorado (I don't even know anyone there, I've just always wanted to live there) I'm gone. My mother calls me a whore. I call that bitch jealous. She married a pest control technician, I'm fucking a 41-year old nerd with a huge bank account. I win.
- That's Juicy! 18
- Remove It! 0
