My Recounting of a Black Hooker's Good Evening

[SoftGameHunter]

Teaser: A down and out hooker talks about a night that happened to her. It is not a good night.
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
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Title: My Recounting of a Black Hooker's Good Evening
Author: SoftGameHunter
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This isn’t some literary story. It’s a recounting of what happened to me, so I’m just going to start with dumping myself all over you. Yes, that’s a deliberate metaphor. So maybe it’s literary after all. Sue me. But as promised, I am: biologically female, mid-toned black, twenty-six years old, a hundred sixteen pounds, B-cup, straight black hair, shaved down there because that’s how the customers like it, no tattoos, all my teeth present and accounted for. That’s your picture so you can visualize it all as you read this.

My Recounting of a Black Girl’s Good Evening.

That’s my title. It’s ironic. There wasn’t a good thing about it. I wish I could say it was my worst night ever, but that’s not true either. I’ve had plenty worse, most of them sexually abusive too, but mostly they just all involved more fists swung a lot harder and me in the ER begging for pain meds waiting for a rape kit and someone to set broken bones. This story doesn’t have broken bones or an ER visit. So, not the worst.

February and I’m out shivering at midnight, underdressed to catch the attention of some man in a car. At this hour I don’t know why else they’d be driving along here, but a lot of them just pass on through. Maybe they just like to gawk. I’m not indecent by law, but I’m pretty fucking close. So are most of us. Black, white, Mexican. Even a couple Chinese girls, but they get picked up fast. We’re a half-mile line-up of mostly naked skin for sale and viewing is free. I’d rather quit but I’ve got forty bucks on me and the weekly rent is due in the morning.

I stand alone. Sometimes we bunch up but I’m desperate so I take the higher risk. Oh, and I’ll dump myself on you again so you can paint the picture. I am wearing: a pink satin tube top a size too small, sparkly yellow short shorts, also a size too small, a black hair band and a ponytail tie so my hair is out of my face and out of the way, blue heels, not stiletto but fairly high, with my toes exposed, nails painted pink, as are my fingernails, and a little black sparkly purse with my money, nail clippers, switchblade, a couple cosmetics, phone, and house keys. That’s what I was showing off to the drivers on Logan Street at midnight as the temperature dropped below forty and falling fast.

The Johns all peter off rapidly as it gets later. This isn’t New York. We sleep, and if a guy wants to buy a whore, he buys her early enough to get some sleep after. There were probably still thirty of us out there freezing our asses off and I didn’t have anything special. I was young, but so were most of us, and the older ones knew how to make it count or they just knocked down the price. I guessed ten more tricks might show up in the next couple hours, so most of us were getting a chill standing around half-naked for nothing. I was wishing I had one of those fake fur wraps but I didn’t. It was just me and my scraps of thin fabric. When a guy in a pickup rolled up alongside me, I was desperate to jump in just for the warmth.

I didn’t. Never just jump in. It’s dangerous enough. They ran all the pimps out of town years ago, but the one thing those guys were good for was keeping the tricks in line, so now we were on our own trying to judge a man in a minute before he drove us off and we took all our clothes off for him. This guy, well. Let’s dump him. He was: white, forty-something, looked like a farmer or outside laborer with a thick denim coat and cap that looked like they’d seen some wear. I couldn’t see his feet, but probably boots. Black jeans. He hadn’t shaved in like two weeks. I hate the uncertainty of white guys. Some of them are timid and pay well. Some of them are hair-trigger psychopaths. The black guys are way more consistent. My best and worst nights were all with white guys (except that one Mexican that one time.) But, there he was.

“Looking to party?” I asked him.

He didn’t answer at first. He just flipped up a hundred in front of me and waved it a little like a dog treat. “Get in,” he said.

All I can say is rude assholes are usually just that. Rude, and assholes. They’re no more likely to be a freak than anyone else. Plus, he showed the money. I took a chance and he was probably my last chance that night. I opened the door and climbed in. As he drove off with me, I looked to see if any of the girls were watching, just in case. Brown pickup truck. That’s literally all I could have said and I was sitting in it. But maybe he had a distinctive bumper sticker or something. If my luck ran out. I couldn’t tell. We try to keep an eye on things, but I was isolating myself out there and a lot of us do this job pretty wasted or strung out. Not me. At least not that night. I was on my own. I didn’t see any of the other girls watching me. Maybe they did, and maybe they didn’t. I just didn’t know. So, not for the first time, a strange man drove me away to my fate.

“Boy, I sure lucked out,” I began. It was vague enough. If he didn’t want fake compliments, then my ‘lucking out’ was just getting picked up. If he did, it was getting picked up by a stud.

“Nah, you didn’t,” he said. Oh, bad? Or not? He was either grumpy or taunting me.

“Hey, I got some business,” I said, switching tone.

“I’ll give you the business, don’t worry.” Morose. Damn, this one was hard to read. So I did what girls in my position don’t always learn to do well. I shut the fuck up. The man was going to fuck me, pay me, and then exit from my life. Why mess with that?

He drove us out of town. Okay, not a big deal. There are plenty of suburban and rural neighborhoods in easy driving distance. He headed out towards Sylvan Lake. I’d been out that way a few times. It was mostly vacation homes, so I hadn’t ever been there in winter, but there were real homes too, and a few oddball renters tripping on the off-off season. It was ten miles and we passed three cars. So, pretty remote. Which one was he taking me to? “We almost there?” I asked.

“Yeah, almost. It ain’t some luxury hotel, so don’t expect nothing.”

“’kay,” I said.

He finally pulled in behind some local grocery store, the kind where weekenders go to get steaks, charcoal, fresh fish, and snacks for the kiddies, plus marked up detergent, deodorant, and pads they forgot to pack or think about. So, it was that kind of lay. Whatever. He didn’t have to come all the way out, but it was all the same to me. I was getting the idea this spot just meant something to him, so it would be a quick bang, possibly in the truck bed, and then back to town. Dull, but doable.

Bang! Famous last words, even if unspoken, as the back of his fist caught my nose. I cried out, recoiling and flailing out through my tears for the door handle. “No, fuck you, nigger bitch!” he roared as he grabbed my hair. I had to clutch his hands to avoid being scalped as he opened his own door and dragged me over the center console. I kicked and screamed, but he was a strong fucker and pulled me off my ass and out the driver’s door.

“No, wait!” I cried. Sometimes a cry to wait got their attention for a few moments, enough to try something. It was instinct now.

His fist slammed into my mouth and nose again, this time with leverage. Blood sprayed. Oh, crying out to wait only worked once, I guess. I don’t know why that was always my instinct. I collapsed to the cold, wet ground, scraping my exposed skin on the dirty asphalt. “Get up!” he shouted, grabbing at me. Not me, my clothes. Off ripped my top. And then the shorts. I screamed as I tried to crawl away from him, but he dragged me back, stripping me down to nothing. Struggling was just an animal instinct. I wailed in my head because I knew full-well he was going to win. If I’d grabbed my switchblade first, I might have made an escape, but no. My purse was out of my grip. All was lost and my options were to play nice and hope he didn’t kill me or beat me too badly.

The last was probably out. He slammed my head into the side of his truck several times before bending me over the lowered tailgate. And then he smashed my face down on the truck bed a bunch of times, so hard I almost missed that he was stuffing his cock into me from behind. Up the pussy, not the ass. It hardly mattered at that point as he kept punching the back of my head and smashing my skull to the bed. My tits were mashed up against the icy cold metal and the top of the tailgate kept digging into my hips and thighs as he slammed into me.

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” he screamed as I screamed. So, I guess we were both screaming, but mine was louder and more pleading to not die. I guess no one heard us. Or cared. He picked the spot to rape me well. I didn’t feel him finish, but he grabbed me and hurled me to the ground beside the truck so I guess he did. I lay there, unmoving. I tried to look unthreatening. I tried to be unassuming. It was time to play dead. Of course, I was crying and shaking, but hopefully I could pray for him to just go. He certainly wasn’t giving me a ride back. My best hope was that he left me my clothes and purse. If he just left my cell phone, I’d be home in an hour.

He walked around, gathering up everything he’d torn from me. The headlights were still on, shining off forward, but with enough glow to light up the ground. He got my purse, he got all my torn clothes. He got it all and threw it back in the truck cab. I just cried there on the cold, gross pavement. Now the best option was that he drove away.

No. He walked to me and kicked me, hard. Belly. Pussy. Head. He picked me up and flopped me around, so dazed I could hardly pay attention, but he bound my wrists with some rough twine. Behind my back. So, we were going somewhere? No again. He dragged me over to the dumpster. It was locked, but the side window access wasn’t, so he slid it open.

“No, please,” I begged him. “Not in there!” No use. He lifted me up and pitched me headfirst into the thing. It turned out to be empty, so I just landed in the shallow pools of disgusting grime and slime that lived at the bottom of grocery store dumpsters. He slid the panel shut and I heard him drive off. Soon I was alone with the loud echoes of my own sobs for company.

And for several minutes that’s what I did. Like a stupid, helpless girl I just lay there crying, as if that would help. I was hurt, naked, freezing, and lost. He didn’t kill me, but I would die there if I didn’t act. So I laid there crying like a dumb whore.

Of course, I did, get up. I had to struggle to find the panel with my bound hands in the absolute blackness of the locked dumpster and then I struggled more to get it back open. There was no handle on the inside. Mostly I just slid my cut hands on the slick surface trying to get some grip, but finally I managed to curl my broken fingernails around it enough slide it a fraction of an inch. And then more and I slid it open to the brilliantly lit parking lot under the crescent moon. It was clearing a bit. So, more light, and probably colder soon. Maybe a frost. Naked, wet girls and frost don’t mix. Plus, the panel was over three feet up. With my tied hands, I had no way to assist myself other than to stand next to the opening and try to jump outward enough to fall to the pavement outside, preferably without ripping my naked front side apart on the dumpster panel edge. I fought back more sobs willing myself to just do it. So I did it.

And with a scream I slipped back down into the dumpster. So, I needed a running start. I had to make myself dive face-first onto cold, rough asphalt. Yeah, I cried some more. And then with a scream and lunged at that panel and hurled myself up. My thighs and calves scraped it and I banged the absolute shit out of my left knee, but I landed splat on the disgusting pavement, outside the dumpster free and clear.

So, there it was. Me, alone, naked, really hurting bad, with a long cold walk back to town ahead of me. Beaten, black, naked hookers, the highest strata of society. Yeah, I’d get lots of help on the way. Odds are I’d still die of the cold or be murdered by someone. But that’s where I was at. I began walking.

I limped badly out of the grocery store lot. Everything hurt. He’d hurt me bad, real bad. I already said earlier that it didn’t end in an ER visit, but it should have. I was shivering bad and hurting worse. I expected I was going to die. I didn’t. I’m not writing this from hell. For all the head-smashing, I didn’t have a concussion that I knew of, and no broken bones either, but I was beat to hell, stark naked in the cooling night air, and far from warmth or safety. So yeah, I was scared to death as I limped away from that parking lot.

After a while, as my eyes fully adapted to the dark, I saw more of where I was. It was on a lake road mostly full of vacation houses or rentals. All dark. I found the first one with a car parked in front and took a deep breath. There was no way around it. I wasn’t walking ten miles back to town or whatever it was going to be. I walked up and rang the doorbell.

It worked. I could hear it ring. So I stood there, waiting, listening, begging the heavens that whoever looked out and saw me there wasn’t going to shoot my ass. There were bars over the windows on the place. Security bars. Some vacation spot, but I knew a lot of these types of houses got broken into a lot when no one was around. I knew some of the people who did it back in the day. I wasn’t going to be breaking in myself, not with the bars on the windows and not like I was.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Who the fuck’s out there?” the voice demanded. I hadn’t even heard anyone moving inside, but now the voice came from nearby. The window, now cracked open.

“Please, I’m hurt. Please let me in!”

The porch light popped on without warning, blinding me. All the exterior lights came on, floodlights in front and on the sides. Probably in back too. I stood there lit up like, well, something lit up. I don’t have a good way to finish that one. But I was certainly on bloody display like that. “Put your hands up and turn around!”

“Please, I’m alone,” I begged, and I couldn’t do what he told me to. My hands were tied. “I can’t lift my hands up. They’re tied, see?” I turned around, lifting them as much as I could, which wasn’t much. He can’t have been impressed, as bloody and battered as I was. Unless he liked that sort of thing. This guy could be anyone. “I was raped. A man beat me up and left me at that store up the road. I’m really cold out here. Please.”

I just stood there and stood there, waiting for a reply of some kind. It was like he’d just stopped talking, which I guess is exactly what he was going. Waiting. Sizing me up? Calling the cops? I’d take the cops at that point. Even if they busted me with Vice, it meant a warm squad car and a jail cot.

Of course, if he invited me in, anything could happen. I’m not that much of a fighter girl in the best of times, and this wasn’t the best of times. I wish it was the worst of times, but it wasn’t that either. My life, right? I could be raped again or murdered. Or both. Or I could end up locked away somewhere. Or, or, or. So many things could happen while I stood there waiting for the fucker to say something to me. But I just stood there, shivering and waiting and begging the sky to show me some kind of mercy.

“Get the fuck out of here!”

“Please, sir, I’m hurt real bad! I’m bleeding and this guy beat the shit of out me. I ain’t no threat to you, sir! Please, help me out.”

I heard it then. The click of a gun cocking from the other side of the window. If I thought the night air was cold, it was nothing against that sound of a gun readied for me. It wasn’t the first time I’d ever heard one like it. I didn’t know what it was. Pistol. Shotgun. Something else entirely. But I knew that sound.

“I ain’t telling you again, bitch. Get the fuck off my front door. We don’t need your kind of trash around here. Fuck off, you damned cunt!”

I stumbled back, not daring to turn around until I’d backed away a good twenty or thirty feet, to the road. I turned then and I ran off. Or rather, I shambled off in a hurry. A few minutes later the lights turned off behind me and I was alone in the pitch darkness again, shaking and sobbing and waiting for my damned eyes to get used to the darkness again. A bit of moon isn’t that much light to see by. But I kept onward, slowly at first as I picked my way forward over a cold road I could barely see.

No one was out there. I was really in bad shape. My teeth were clicking so hard I thought I might break one. The clouds went over the moon again, but now I had enough night vision to make my way forward. My feet were colder than anything and I couldn’t do nothing for them at all except keep walking on them. I’d have taken a car. Any car. Anyone.

And then there was a car. Ahead of me, coming my way. The headlights came around a curve up ahead, wrecking my chances of seeing anything else in the dark but coming towards me. Anyone. I lifted my arms up and waved them, trying to flag the driver down. I hoped it wasn’t some maniac, but I still didn’t have any other options other than trying. I wasn’t walking that fast and I wasn’t getting that close to town. It had been an hour at least since leaving that house, maybe a couple since it all started. Or less and it seemed like more. I don’t know, but I knew there were headlights coming at me.

But then the red glow of the brake lights came off the back. Some ways away and the vehicle stopped right there on the road, still pointed at me, still shining headlights at me, but stopped. Why was he stopped? Was it me? I wasn’t threatening looking. Maybe it looked like some trap, where the half-naked girl gets a car to stop and then her friends jump the driver. But this was a stupid place to try that, middle of the night on a road with no cars. But people get skittish. If I were skittish, I wouldn’t be bleeding and naked on a cold winter night.

Now the car started up again, coming towards me. Or, at me? As it got closer, I could hear that the engine was revving hard. And closer still I could make out that it was a pickup truck. And all at once I had the worst possible notion that my rapist was back to finish off the job of killing me. Probably doing me again first, and then killing my ass and dumping my body somewhere. Or, as the truck really closed in, just running me over!

I jumped out of the way as he drove faster and faster at me, hurling myself into the ditch alongside the road. The tires squealed as he hit the brakes hard. I scrambled to get myself upright, gaining my feet as the truck lurched in reverse back to where I was standing. The door flew open and some backlit man came rushing out at me. I screamed and tried to run for it.

“How the fuck did you get out?” he roared. It was him. It wasn’t just my fears or my imagination. He’d come back, expecting to find me dead or dying in the dumpster and instead found me roaming around in public looking for help. But for an old crank in the one occupied house, I could have been rescued already and talking to the cops. I felt his hands closing in on my waving hair, yanking me back hard and tumbling to the ground to roll on the dead brush around me.

“No! Leave me alone!” I cried as he stopped and pinned me down on the cold, wet ground.

“Shut up, you nigger bitch!” he yelled, punching my face and gut once each, exploding my nose again and knocking the air from my lungs. I just lay there, wheezing through the blood in my throat, and realizing too late that he was taking his pants down. So, again! I groaned and tried frantically but weakly to struggle. It was a joke of a struggle, I’ll tell you that. He parted my legs pretty easily and leaned in for the penetration, piercing me easily.

Oh fuck, my first thought? He was warm. He had a warm dick in my cold coochie and it was hot. Hurt like a fucker on my beaten pussy from before, but it was a warm hurt, and a warm pelvis on mine, and warm hands holding me down. So, for all that, and all my hurt and fear and shame at myself, he was warm and that’s what I felt from him as he held me down and fucked me and raped me and I couldn’t do a fucking thing about it.

This time I felt him cum in me, warmth filling me, and lay there sobbing as he got off me and got up and pulled his pants up. He was done. I was wrecked. And now, how would he kill me? I mean, he didn’t just come back to me for more nookie. He came back to make sure I was dead. And when I looked up, he was indeed standing over me with a gun. Some long gun, not a handgun, but I couldn’t see in the backlight of the truck lights what kind. I guess it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to go anywhere. With the right shot, I wouldn’t even hear it or feel it. I’d see a flash and then nothing. Ever again. I cried there, on the ground.

“Please don’t shoot me! I don’t want to die like this! Please!”

“Shut your hole and lie face down, bitch!” he snarled.

“Please don’t kill me!” I wailed. “Oh lord! I never did nothing to you!”

“I’ll start with your kneecaps if you don’t turn that black ass over and lie with your fucking face in the dirt!”

“I don’t want to die!” I sobbed as my guts churned in my belly, but I got myself turned over. It wasn’t easy with bound hands and everything hurting even worse. Now I just laid there, staring at the dark ground inches from my eyes while my rapist killer stood over me. I peed into the ground right there. I heard the click of the cocking of the gun. “No! Oh lord, please no!”

“Oh fuck!” he growled low under his breath. Then his footsteps, running back to his idling truck. I only dared look up as he peeled away, spinning out a half-donut and turning back to town. And another pair of headlights were coming from the other way, the way I’d come from. I scrambled up to my knees and shambled over to the roadway, trying to get the car’s driver’s attention. Preferably before my attacker got over his fright and came back to kill us both.

That new car slammed on the brakes, probably on seeing me. I just knelt there, tears streaming, shaking badly, a naked and bloody mess in the headlights while the driver stared at me. It seemed like forever, just waiting. Wondering. Was my monster scared off by a bigger one? Had I traded death for freedom, or for a slower and more painful death? Or worse? The door opened and a figure moved from behind the light.

“Huh,” a male voice said. “Looks like I came just in time.” Was he that bored? But he stepped over, behind me. I heard the flick of his own knife.

“Oh lord, please!” I screamed, but he grabbed me as I tried to scramble away on my knees, ripping them even more on the cold, dirty asphalt.

“Calm down! I’m just freeing your hands!” He grabbed me and the warm blade slid between my wrists. Then my hands were free to move. “Guess I should have said something first. Sorry about that. Come on, get in. I’ll drive you into town.”

He didn’t care to cover the passenger seat, but I think my body just made it cleaner. He was also in a truck, but it was about thirty years old and covered in wrappers and stains inside. When I was seated, he got in and drove onward.

“Thanks,” I said.

We drove about halfway to town. “Where do you live?” he asked.

“Oh,” I replied and recited my building address. I didn’t have any keys to get in, but this man couldn’t fix that. I should have asked for the hospital, or even the police at that point, but I didn’t. I just answered the question. He drove us into town and he knew how to find the building.

Now here’s the part that really shames me even now, what happened next. I’m sitting there, bleeding on this guy’s car seat with another man’s cum dribbling out of my pussy, also onto his car seat. I’ve probably picked up a dozen skin infections from all the rolling around on dirty pavement and dumpsters, and I was just a cheap-ass street-walking whore to begin with. Well below the dignity of even this poor backwoods redneck. “So, thanks. I can show you my gratitude, if you like. Free.”

He looked over at me, eyes drilling into me as I sat there in the dashboard lights like a disgusting, diseased blob. “No.” It wasn’t an angry no, nor a no thanks. Just no.

“You sure?” I flashed my pay-me smile. “I’m real grateful.”

“Get out.” Neither angry nor nice. Just dismissal. My smile faded and I nodded.

“’kay,” I said as I slipped out back into the cold night. The dash clock said it was three-thirty in the morning. I stood there.

“The door?” So I shut the door and he drove off, and I missed him. He said no, and it stung. Like I should have wanted cock at that moment. Like I should be hurt that my savior didn’t stick his wick in my pot of pain and infection. What the fuck was wrong with me?

I turned and faced the building door. Without my key I couldn’t even get in the entry, let alone my single-room apartment. Time to wake the building super, if he was sober enough. God knows I was already on his shit list for a bunch of stuff. Deep breath. It started raining.

So why did I call this a good evening? Well, some day I’ll write down what happened the very next night. And that’s why this was the good evening.

[VictimEyes]

This story is different from the others on this website because, sadly, the chain of events described in this story probably happen every single day IRL. I wish I could live in a world where that is NOT the reality of it. I came away feeling great sympathy for the nameless prostitute.

[SoftGameHunter]

This story is different from the others on this website because, sadly, the chain of events described in this story probably happen every single day IRL. I wish I could live in a world where that is NOT the reality of it. I came away feeling great sympathy for the nameless prostitute.

Thanks. I try to make an impact. This is an unusual one for me because of that realism. Very few of my stories are likely to ever play out in real life, but this one could and, aside from the specific details, probably does.

[Shocker]

It’s a very harsh story, very well told.

[Blue]

A good story that stands out from many other stories here. I like the narrative style, the choice of words, and the way everything happened. What interests me: why was it a "good evening" despite everything? What happened on the really bad evenings? Will we find out about that too?

[SoftGameHunter]

A good story that stands out from many other stories here. I like the narrative style, the choice of words, and the way everything happened. What interests me: why was it a "good evening" despite everything? What happened on the really bad evenings? Will we find out about that too?

There's the real reason, and the in-story reason. The in-story is that when I first wrote it, she was being ironic and snarky to the reader. Then I thought, well, maybe worse was to come. Originally I was going to write out the whole process of getting inside, but it seemed like the story would work better if I left it where it was and didn't drag it out with more of the same. Hence, the hint that worse happened and it extended into the next night. Maybe I'll expand it if inspiration strikes.

The real reason is less thoughtful. The inspiration for this story, slight as it was, came from a screen grab I made years ago of some scene about an abused black hooker that I then titled 'Black girl good evening' because it was good for me and the words stuck in my head. So then I made the story title from the image file name.

[Lucius]

The story stands out here much like a documentary among fictional films. It wasn't arousing for me, but it's very good in its own way. I liked the narration, and the getting out of the dumpster part was just great! I couldn't help but imagine walking past and seeing a naked sista doing her best jack-in-the-box impression.

[SoftGameHunter]

The story stands out here much like a documentary among fictional films. It wasn't arousing for me, but it's very good in its own way. I liked the narration, and the getting out of the dumpster part was just great! I couldn't help but imagine walking past and seeing a naked sista doing her best jack-in-the-box impression.

Best jack-in-the-box impression! Love it.