Wren

Brad hadn't been in a good mood when he woke close to noon. Wren wasn't either but there was little she could do about it. Brad could do all sorts of things, and he did.

She wasn't sure when the last one had been by last night. She'd heard Brad briefly talk with them, take the change can and leave an empty in its place. It impressed her that he had so much faith in the honorable intentions of others, even though yesterday, or maybe the day before, she wasn't sure, he'd finally determined not everyone paid.

It was impossible to explain to him she had no idea whether or not they'd left their money. The sound she'd heard could just as well be a stone or a quarter. A quarter taken from the can and dropped back in, or a penny in its stead.

The ones who tried the lock, tried to pry boards loose from the siding, tried to tip her shed over, poked her with sticks, or thought her shed was a urinal, weren't his concern.

Noise was his concern. How much was in the can of change after a day, the cost of her dog food which was outrageous.

So this morning she was woken by the sounds she'd gotten used to, assumed her position and that was that. Brad was too busy or mean to tell her she'd been a good girl. Too busy to dump her bucket or get new toilet paper. Too busy to replace her urine-soaked (not her pee) blanket or at least hang it out to dry.

More importantly, he was too busy to take her inside for his friends, or himself for that matter, too busy to let her play fetch or be creatively sadistic with her. Too busy to hose her off since when? Day before yesterday, three days ago? Though it could have been yesterday. Everything was dreamlike for her.

She thought but her thoughts were disconnected from each other by the interruptions. She hadn't heard Luther's giggle for days now. Or was it yesterday? She couldn't remember when Luther had last vaselined her because of the rash.

Brad shooed away the kids with the sticks, unlocked her door and looked mad as hell. She rose to her knees and waited for whatever he wanted to do to her.

"You're a fucking mess, Wren, and it stinks in here." He jerked her leash. "Outside."

She waited by her shed, noticing but not looking at the kids with the sticks, four boys and a girl, watching her from the edge of the yard.

"Go away," Brad said to them but they didn't shift a foot. He tossed the reeking blanket over the clothesline, straightened it so it hung properly. "Time to wash you," he said.

She waited on a bare spot in the center of the yard, while he turned on the spigot and fiddled with the nozzle. The water that hit her was cold after the sun-warmed initial blast. He sprayed her all over, making sure her crack and her cunt were clean and then her mouth, letting her drink for a second before he shut off the hose.

The only mercy was the day was warm.

"Go inside when you're dry." He left her after coiling the hose and glaring at the kids.

The looks on their faces got her. These were ten-year-old kids and their roles were already set. Boys with sticks, the girl with open-eyed wonder, a raging curiosity. The girl licked her lips a lot and paid focused attention to the tallest boy, a pale, raven-haired kid who looked like he might grow up to be handsome. In a few years, Wren was sure, the girl would have a bored, jaded look and the boy would have a good start on becoming a public drunk.

When she went into the kitchen Brad was sitting at the table counting the change from last night, stacking the coins in little piles. She crawled to her bowl and waited.

"Go get your stick," Brad said, not looking up from what he was doing.

She crawled to the living room and found the yellow broomstick where it had been left last, over by the TV. She dragged it into the kitchen.

"Fetch," Brad said. He got up and poured himself a cup of coffee.

She heard men's voices outside as she rolled onto her back and inserted the broomstick into her cunt, the cut-off end swaying above her in a tiny circle.

"Ten dollars and change," Brad said, getting up. "Goddamn it."

She heard him yell into the yard, "We're busy. She'll be back in an hour." He slammed the door and stood above her. "Fucking dog shit. Coffee's cold." He splashed his cup on her. "Lick it up."

He hadn't said not to fetch so she rolled to her side and got onto her knees, adjusting the stick behind her. Coffee, her first since when? A week ago, two weeks ago, that diner, before meeting Brad?

The coffee was cold, the floor gritty.

Brad sat at the table watching her. "Laura asked me last night about you. She'd heard something and wondered so I told her to come on out this evening. Spend the night. See you in action, see the show. You should be able to make more than ten dollars, dog shit. What's with all the freebies? I don't like it."

She focused her attention on what she was doing, wondering if Laura was a girlfriend. Wondering what would happen to her if Laura came to stay.

"And those kids."

Brad never touched her except to hold her as she was fucked or to hit her. In her shed she wasn't touched at all, just an opening for the waiting prick.

Maybe she'd been here two weeks. There wasn't a way to tell. It was maybe Saturday or Sunday because of the kids. More voices in the yard.

"We're fucking busy," Brad shouted from the table. To her he said, "It wasn't like this till you came."

The last word. Came. She came spontaneously now. In the middle of sucking or with a prick in her ass. She didn't need to touch herself, just squeeze somehow and she was off. Her shed had so many scents; it didn't matter what she smelled. The darkness with the intermittent patch of light was filled with flashing and flaring colors.

She squeezed and the stick thumped the floor behind her.

"If you can't do better than fifteen today, I'll whip you raw." He got up and opened a cupboard.

She lay on her side in a daze, involuntary muscle twitches twisting her body. Overhead was the hook in the ceiling. She'd hung from that yesterday while he whipped her with a strap.

Brad used the can opener and left it on the counter. The can's lid was still attached, tipped up. He dumped her food into her bowl and she rose to eat.

Sometimes he liked to mash her face down into the dogfood. Today he left her to shout out the back door, "I said we're fucking busy," and slammed it.

He paced behind her as she ate from her bowl. "Laura wanted to know if you were any good. I told her for what you do, good doesn't matter. A hole was what mattered. A cunt open for any prick. That's what mattered. She was interested, I could tell. Maybe she'll come out tonight and she'll see what I mean. If you were any fucking good you'd be worth more than two slippery bits. I'd have my truck and I could take Laura places. She likes to go out. That's enough." He jerked her leash. "Come here."

She crawled to him, wiping her face and licking her hands. He waved his prick in her face.

"Go to it," he said.

She sucked as he held her head, pulling her onto his prick, into her throat. She kept it there as long as she could, then backed so she could breathe. He let her move away; eventually in the next few minutes he'd control her completely.

In her throat, then out. In her throat, then out. He held her head and fucked. She tried to keep up. He came, held her face mashed against his stomach. She swallowed, impossible to breathe. He held her and she squeezed and came. He released her, wiping his wet prick on her face, over her closed eyes. She swallowed and breathed.

"Go on outside." He cuffed her. "Go on."

She left the stick on the floor, crawled to the back door. Seven men and a couple of boys waited by her shed, talking, kicking their heels and smoking cigarettes. They quieted down when they saw her.

Usually they saw as much of her as she saw of them, a four-inch square bit of flesh.

"Hey, girlie, get on in there."

"Why wait?" another said.

She crawled to her shed, knelt by the hatch.

Brad locked her shed door; she heard a quarter or something go in the can and the hatch opened.

"Cunt," that one said; his uncircumcised prick thrust into her shed.

She braced against the rough board shed wall, his prick in her cunt. Their movements were limited by the wall between them. She heard laughter, shut her eyes and imagined them standing around her, waiting their turns. Some were dressed, pricks exposed, some were naked like her. A ring of them, interconnected and revolving like clock gears.

His come was dripping from her when the next coin went in the can and another request for cunt was presented. Seven, eight, nine, ten. All in a circle, someone with a camera taking pictures, someone calling her the awfullest slut, and someone filling her openness. Then the next one.

She squeezed and a flash of light went off before her closed eyes.

"She gripped me," someone said. "Just like a hand."

Her ass thumped back against her shed wall.

Her cunt dripping, the next one wanted her ass. She wet herself with come and settled herself over the presented prick.

When her shed door was open and she could see, she could see the trails of dried come on the wall, spattered and splashed and dripping from the four-inch square opening.

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