True Submission Read online

  Cover Art

  by Kelly Shorten

  Ebook ISBN 9781937337650

  Copyright 2012 Claire Thompson

  All rights reserved

  Chapter 1

  Ashley’s eyes were opened wide and her lips were parted. She held the mascara wand carefully, drawing it up her long blonde lashes until they were coated with black. The sudden hand on her back made her jump and the wand jerked forward, smearing her cheek.

  “Stupid. Now you’ll have to start over. What’s wrong with you?” Greg’s voice was angry and Ashley tensed, waiting for the blow. Unconsciously she squeezed her eyes closed, bracing her body for his open palm.

  Instead, his finger traced the black line of makeup that marred her smooth cheek as he leaned over her from behind, looking at her reflection in the mirror. “Hey,” he said softly, “you act like I’m going to hit you. Don’t be silly. Would I do that?”

  Ashley opened her eyes, trying to smile. Relief washed over her as she realized Greg wasn’t drunk and, at least tonight, she would be able to get out before he started drinking. She had a date.

  Well, not a date. A job—a john—a trick.

  As she quickly wiped the offending mark with some cold cream, Greg said, his tone no longer kind, “I asked you a question. Would I hit you?” The sudden anger erased the saccharine sweetness of a moment before. Ashley hated these games. She never knew how to respond and invariably whatever she did say was the “wrong” response.

  Of course, he did hit her. Lately it seemed several times a week he found a reason to strike her. Usually it was impulsive—a slap to her face if he thought she was being “mouthy” or a hard shove against the wall to make a point. Sometimes it was planned, like the time she had tried to leave and he had caught her packing a duffel bag. Then he had used the hose.

  She hated the hose.

  He didn’t want to “damage the goods”, as he snidely referred to her. But “to remind her of her place” he had pulled out the two-foot-long cut of solid rubber hose. “Got this from a cop buddy of mine,” he grinned menacingly. “Doesn’t leave marks so they can’t get reprimanded for mistreating the perp.” Greg rarely used the hose on Ashley. She tried never to give him cause. But when he did, he would coldly and methodically whip every part of her body until she was a huddled mass on the floor, sobbing and begging for him to stop. It hurt like hell but it never left a mark, at least none that lasted more than a day.

  Now she said nervously, “Only when I deserve it, Greg.”

  Greg laughed without mirth. “That’s right, Ashley. Only when you deserve it. Now hurry up with that makeup. This guy isn’t one to be kept waiting. He’s paying a pretty penny for your services, whore.”

  Ashley nodded, blinking back the tears that sprang to her eyes. How she hated him calling her that. And yet, it was true. She earned her keep on her back, spreading her legs for the men Greg procured for her. It was the least she could do to repay him, or so he’d told her over and over again.

  When Greg had picked her up off the streets four years ago, she was little better than a skeleton, living for the next hit from her crack pipe. Then only nineteen, she’d already been on the streets for two years, having escaped an abusive alcoholic father.

  Early on, she’d learned to turn tricks for money, for shelter, for food and finally for the crack cocaine, which had come to be the center of a rapidly shrinking universe. As the drug took her over, she forgot about some basic things like hygiene and food. It became harder to find a man who was willing to pay for the only thing she knew how to offer.

  She had given up, surviving on handouts and sleeping in doorways. Death was waiting, whispering to her to accept its warm and final embrace. She found that she welcomed it and only wished it would hurry up.

  When Greg had picked her up, she’d been surprised as men rarely sought her services at that point. She was too thin with her hair falling out and her skin sallow and gray with ill health and addiction. She hadn’t been entirely sure if it was a dream or reality, but when he’d waved the twenty in her direction, she got into his car and let him take her to his house.

  He didn’t try to make love to her. He didn’t even want a blow job. Instead, he made her a big plate of spaghetti. She wasn’t hungry—her stomach was shrunken and she barely kept anything down these days—but with his coaxing she managed to eat a few bites, washing it down with some cheap red wine.

  She wasn’t used to a man’s attentions, other than sexual, and when Greg began to quiz her on her life, Ashley wasn’t sure how to respond. He seemed so interested in her. He seemed to care about the sordid details of her pathetic existence and she found herself talking to him, confiding how she ran away from home, how she’d discovered the joys and then the grip of crack, how lonely and miserable she was.

  When he suggested she get some rest and said he had a guest bedroom she could use “for a while”, it seemed like heaven was shining down on her for the first time in years. Gratefully she accepted the hot shower and the soft sheets he offered. She knew there had to be some strings attached—there always were—but for now, she didn’t care.

  That first morning when she awoke Greg was already up, sitting at his breakfast table drinking a cup of coffee. When she thanked him for the shower and the bed and told him she needed to be getting back—the urge for a fix was no longer just a needling desire, it was becoming painful—he said no, she wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

  Instead, he fed her pancakes and bacon, and strong hot coffee. The food made her sick and as she was vomiting over the toilet, Greg pulled back her thin hair, holding it as she clutched the toilet bowl in misery.

  “You don’t understand,” she pleaded. “I need my fix. I got my stuff back at the place. I need to get back there. You don’t understand.”

  “Shh, I understand all too well, baby. You’re puking up your guts and that shit you’re using is killing you. You look like nineteen going on eighty. I’m not letting you go back to finish killing yourself. You’re staying right here. End of discussion.” Too sick and weak to argue, Ashley had let him lead her back to bed.

  The days passed and the fierce craving for her drug of choice began to ease its grip on her gut. As the intense need for crack slowly ebbed, Ashley began to come alive again. Still Greg wouldn’t let her go.

  With a full belly and a clearing mind, Ashley began to focus on getting out of there. Though he had been nothing but kind, she didn’t like being kept against her will.

  She tried the doors at night when his even breathing told her he was sleeping in his bedroom, but all the doors were dead bolted with a key that was nowhere to be found.

  “You can’t just keep me here as your prisoner,” she had entreated him.

  “Oh, you’re not my prisoner, sugar. You’re my princess. I’m your knight in shining armor and I’m saving your life, girl. You were this close to death.” He held up his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “I’m saving you. Just let go. Turn it over to me, baby. I’m your savior.”

  Part of her, the aching, exhausted part of her that was desperately tired of scrabbling out an existence, believed him. Almost too easily she gave in. She stopped asking to leave, letting things happen as they would.

  And so he kept her there, weaning her from the crack, feeding and bathing her, nursing her back to health.

  He locked her in her bedroom while he was at work, leaving her with plenty of food and drink and a big color TV to watch. He let her sleep as long as she wanted and never asked anything of her. He never touched her, not back then.

  “You’re my baby,” he would croon to her, cradling her in his arms. When she begged him to let her go, he refused, saying gently, “I can’t let my baby go. You’d be eaten alive out there, sugar.
With me you’re safe, safe at last.” And she’d come to believe him, to truly believe what he offered.

  Really, it was the first time in her life she’d felt safe, with no one to molest her or take out their drunken rages on her. Though she didn’t have her beloved drug, she did have plenty to eat and drink and she was comfortable and warm.

  When crack’s slave grip was completely loosened and she was able to function without it, Ashley found herself grateful to Greg. He had saved her, as he told her repeatedly. Her lifeless, thinning hair grew in again, a thick lustrous dark blonde. Her skin took on a glow of health, pink and creamy white. The curve of her cheek filled out again and her eyes, a dark blue, were bright once again.

  Still Greg didn’t ask anything of her. For the first six months after her recovery he only asked that she keep the house for him and cook the food he brought home. He didn’t have to lock the doors anymore. Ashley had become almost afraid to leave the house, only feeling safe within the four walls. Greg subtly encouraged her fear, coaxing and training her to rely more and more on him and him alone.

  Once he was certain she wasn’t going to try to leave, he began to reintroduce his charge to the outside. First, he would take her out to the supermarket or for dinner at a diner. When she realized nothing was going to happen, her irrational fears began to drop away. Soon she was doing the shopping herself, even pressing through a crowded mall to buy herself new clothes with the money Greg had given her.

  She knew she owed him a lot. How could she repay him?

  This she was soon to discover, in spades. When he finally made his plan clear for her, it was almost natural for her to accept. It didn’t occur to her to say no. The first time it was just a “favor for a friend”.

  He’d set up a “date” for her. “Just to help out an old friend, you understand,” he’d explained. She was to accompany this man to a business dinner. He was from out of town and needed to bring a date. “This guy is loaded, babe. You might just get a nice tip out of it, if you play your cards right. Remember, you cooperate with him in every way, and I mean every way, and everyone will be happy.” Greg had winked suggestively at Ashley and she had smiled nervously.

  She knew what he meant, of course. She’d spent two years selling her body for money. She had no moral compunction about it. As a high school dropout with no skills, what else did she have to offer? At least this fellow sounded like someone with a bit of class, not the lowlife sleaze who had propositioned her on the street.

  The dinner was fancy and Ashley had actually enjoyed wearing the pretty outfit Greg had picked out for her. It was elegant, not like the usual thrift store clothing or jeans she had always worn. It showed her small, high breasts to advantage without being slutty.

  He had taken her to a fancy salon where they did her nails and put highlights in her dark blonde hair. She had been afraid at first when they wanted to cut it—it hadn’t even been trimmed for as long as she could remember. But the hairdresser was nice. Ashley remembered her name was Pat, and she convinced her to give the new cut a try. “Don’t worry,” she’d promised. “It will always grow back if you don’t like it.” In fact, the new haircut had made her feel sophisticated and sexy.

  Greg took her to another place, he called it a spa, where Ashley received lessons in how to apply makeup, something she’d never used before and didn’t think she needed. But she couldn’t deny that the artfully added color made her look more alive and vibrant. She didn’t know why Greg was spending all this money getting her all dolled up, but she didn’t complain. No one had ever paid this kind of attention to her and it was actually kind of fun. When Greg had complimented her, telling her she was beautiful, for a moment Ashley had almost believed him.

  She didn’t strut her beauty. Quickly the initial confidence of the new hair and makeup faded back to what she considered “reality”. Ashley lacked that necessary sparkle inside that confident women carried. A life fraught with danger and little love had taught her to walk carefully, hunching a little, averting her eyes. This kept her “safe”, out of the line of fire, or so she would have said if she’d thought about it.

  Whatever she thought about herself, Greg assured her that many men would be willing to “pay good money” for her. “Hey, they could do a lot worse, babe.” His eyes grazed her body, his leer leaving her with a vaguely dirty feel. It wasn’t a new feeling, but that didn’t make it a welcome one.

  Of course, when he introduced the idea of her “going out” with Frank, she’d realized his motives were less than pure. So, what else was new? Everyone was out for the buck, why should Greg be any different?

  “Just keep quiet. Don’t volunteer anything about yourself. You have a sexy voice and a hot bod. That’s all this guy needs to know. Nothing about your street past, got it? Men like this don’t want to think they’re with a two-bit whore. They want high class all the way. You can fake it, babe. I have confidence in you.”

  As with so many of Greg’s backhanded compliments, Ashley felt shame rather than pleasure at his words. He was constantly reminding her of the past he claimed she should forget. Not a day went by that he didn’t harp on his role as her “savior”. Well, apparently it was payback time.

  Though this fellow Frank was easily old enough to be her father, he was gallant and made her feel special. When he had kissed her in the taxi after the dinner, she hadn’t resisted him. Men were all like that, she knew, taking what they could get from a girl.

  When he’d invited her back up to his hotel room, she’d come along willingly enough, curious to see where a man of such obvious wealth stayed. When he’d kissed her again, pulling down the straps of her dress to paw at her breasts, she went along passively.

  Oddly, his heart didn’t seem to be in it and after a moment he pulled away, his expression pained. Gently he lifted the little straps of her gown back over her shoulders. “Greg didn’t tell me you were so young, Ashley. How old are you, anyway?”

  “Old enough to know better,” she replied sassily, her street behavior coming to the fore at his remark.

  “I don’t think so,” he’d answered thoughtfully. “You don’t strike me as a, uh, lady of the evening.”

  “A what?” Ashley looked confused and Frank smiled, and then pursed his lips.

  “What did Greg tell you, anyway? You can be honest. What are you getting out of tonight?”

  “Well,” Ashley flushed, embarrassed that Frank was putting her on the spot. She was used to men furtively grabbing what they wanted and hitting the road. What did this guy want from her? Lamely she said, “He, uh, said there might be a tip.”

  “A tip. Do you know what I paid him for the pleasure of your company?”

  “No,” she whispered, turning away. The more things change, the more they stay the same—this phrase her mother used to say before she died flitted through Ashley’s head. She bit her lip. She knew what it was to prostitute herself. She’d made her living that way in the past. Why pretend life was any different now?

  Frank was watching her. Softly he said, “Three hundred dollars.”

  In spite of herself, Ashley was impressed. The most she’d ever gotten was fifty, and that was rare. What the hell was this guy going to expect for three hundred dollars?

  Why had she fooled herself, even for a second, that Greg was any different than all the rest? He’d taken her in, not because he was her “savior”, but because he had seen a way to make a buck. She was back to selling her body and it wasn’t even her own dime she’d be making. She was Greg’s girl. His whore. The money had passed from Frank’s hand to Greg’s, and she hadn’t been involved in the transaction. She was the property.

  Her eyes were overbright, but she wasn’t going to give this guy the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Drawing on the old street bravado she said, “Yeah, well. I guess I’m that good.” Unconsciously she was hugging herself and rocking slightly, looking every bit as young as she was.

  The older man smiled gently though his eyes were sad. Stroking her cheek w
ith one finger he said, “You know what, Ashley? I had such a nice evening tonight having you at my side. You made me feel young again. I had the best-looking date at that stuffy old dinner. All the other guys were jealous.”

  Ashley smiled a little, not sure how to respond but secretly pleased. Frank continued. “But I guess I’m old. I’m so tired all I want to do is see you naked, have a little brandy and go to sleep.” Ashley looked at him uncertainly and he grinned. “Just kidding about the naked part. Not even up for that tonight, I’m afraid.”

  He smiled ruefully and added, “Don’t worry about Greg. It will be our secret. Yours and mine. Would you like a bit of Grand Marnier? It’s my favorite.”

  “Oh, uh, sure.” Ashley sat down on the large white couch Frank gestured toward, watching as he poured two large snifters of amber brandy. She sipped it, wincing a little as the strong orange liqueur burned down her throat. She asked, “But what about Greg? He’s probably going to ask me what happened and…” Instinctively, though back then Greg hadn’t yet become overtly abusive, Ashley had sensed that his disapproval would bring some kind of wrath along with it. She certainly didn’t want to find out, and she had never been a good liar.

  “You just tell him that a lady doesn’t kiss and tell. He received the money—he has nothing else to say in the matter. I’ll call him in a day or so and tell him I was pleased.”

  Ashley absorbed this for a moment as she took a second sip of the Grand Marnier. This time it went down smoothly and she savored the hot-sweet orange of it. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m not in the habit of sleeping with a girl my granddaughter’s age.”

  “But you…” Ashley stopped herself, realizing her remark was rude.

  “What? You can speak freely.” Ashley recalled Greg’s admonition that she keep her mouth shut and just look pretty. She hesitated but Frank nodded and smiled. “Go on, I think I know what you want to ask and it won’t hurt my feelings.”

  “Okay, why do you buy a girl for the evening then? Why draw the line at their age, if you’re purchasing their, uh, favors in the first place?”