“Her family disowned her for being such a whackjob skank. She doesn’t have loved ones any more.”
“Well I’ll just have to help them see it wasn’t her fault. Or try at least—maybe I can’t. It’s all I can do.” He went to the door. “She was good to me. So much better than I ever could deserve, and thanks to you, more than I can ever repay. So every time you’re sitting in your cell pitying yourself for how hard you’ve got it, you just thank her for showing you mercy. That you’re still alive, and with a future ahead of you that you just might be able to salvage something out of if you work at it. You can thank her you have that opportunity, because if I left it up to me…” He just shook his head.
With that, he opened the door and called out to the two police officers who’d been waiting patiently for him around the corner. “She’s all yours.”
For a bed in a college dorm, his new mattress was surprisingly comfortable. Unused, still good and springy. Crisp new sheets on it. The scent of air freshener helping mask the stench of blood that hadn’t quite left the room with the old mattress.
Sleep was nonetheless a long time coming. But it came.
Chapter Sixteen
This marks the completion of the story begun last October. I’d like to thank all my readers for their interest, support and criticisms while I churned this thing out. This was my first work of this magnitude, and while I know it wasn’t always smooth sailing, I’m grateful to you all for showing a little tolerance for a new writer.
Dr. Missy Restrepo projected confidence as she made her way into the lecture hall for the final time that semester. Perceptions were important, after all—as she’d learned in rather spectacular fashion. Two months ago, after her department head Dr. Nichols learned she’d been fucking a student—in front of her other students, no less—she’d been fired as quickly as the university could legally manage.
She’d explained that she’d just been trying to be polite. Dr. Nichols hadn’t understood.
With her fiancé out of the picture—she hadn’t been able to make him understand either—and her checking account nearly depleted, she’d been desperate. She’d needed a solid income, in a hurry. Maybe recent events had messed with her judgment, or maybe she’d just been in a place where she was giving up. Whatever it had been, she’d never have thought she could do it.
Strip.
She came fairly naturally to it, though, once she got past the jitters and stage fright, once she got used to former students and the occasional colleague coming in. She’d been on the dance team in high school, after all, so she knew how her body could move. Besides, she told herself, her students had seen her naked already and in a far more compromised manner. Begging for an orgasm from that kid, Schmidt, or whatever his name was. She’d never cum that hard in her life.
Still not worth it. Probably.
It had been rough going at the club, too—not the friendliest work environment. One of the girls, Sydney, another former student of hers, had made a little name for herself by doing a few kinky things on stage. Big star, by the standards of college town strippers. Sydney was the queen of the roost—made everyone else’s life a living hell. Didn’t share tips, demanded one of the two dressing rooms for herself, showed up when she felt like it, danced when she felt like it.
Also, she remembered her old professor—and not fondly.
“Look at you, Dr. Missy, stripping at Scuttlebutt’s. I always thought you had the body for it. Figured you were too good for it, though. Guess I was wrong.”
“Sex work isn’t necessarily degrading,” she’d retorted. “I wrote an article on the merits of the legalization of prostitution last year, actually, in which I argued that—”
“Save it, Doc. Nobody around here’s gonna appreciate your smart mouth talking down to us. Only one thing your mouth’s good for now.”
Missy hadn’t understood then, and just blinked stupidly, waiting for her to continue. “You’re the new girl. That means you get day shifts. It means you’re on call—you show up whenever we need a fresh set of T&A. I hope you can get by on $300 a week, because that’s about what you’re getting.”
“What! I can’t live on $300 a week! I’m behind on my rent as it is! And… what does that have to do with my mouth?”
Sydney sat back in the plush chair in the corner of her dressing room and set one of her legs over the arms, the silk robe sliding apart invitingly. The crotch of her g-string was just visible. “I, on the other hand, am the star of the bar. Do right by me, and I can get you evenings. Weekend evenings. Where the big money is. Full-time. All you gotta do is get on your knees, and… ask.”
Missy thought about the time she’d been lead into a tattoo parlor and asked to have “BITCH FROM HELL” inked on her lower back. Just so she wouldn’t seem rude to a young man. If she could swallow her pride for that…
Dr. Missy got on her knees and licked that bitch’s pussy like a woman possessed. She’d gone gay for a couple years as an undergrad, so she’d had some practice at it. She drove Sydney through a multitude of orgasms, the girl’s cries carrying out into the common room. When she finally pushed her erstwhile professor’s head back and slumped down into the chair with a stupid grin, Missy went ahead and iced the cake by licking her lips and thanking her.
Friday and Saturday evenings it was. Those who recognized her from the university especially enjoyed her, and she learned to switch her pride on and off as she shook her tits, smacked her ass, and grinded her pussy on metal poles and the laps of boys and men who’d once looked at her respect. Lust too, maybe, but respect also.
Still, lust alone seemed to compensate a good deal better. With only two weeks’ practice, she’d had surpassed her old rate of income. She stopped by the bank periodically to deposit the huge wads of cash she was bringing home, ignoring the judgmental looks from the teller (who obviously knew there was only one reason an attractive young woman would be making daily cash deposits). At the end of the month—thanks to a few more pussy-eating sessions with Sydney—she looked over her bank statement and her jaw just dropped.
She’d made just over $6,000. In a month.
So when DJ Schmidt (Swank? Stanwick? Something like that) showed up at her apartment the first week of December to apologize for getting her fired—and the tattoo—and told her that he’d missed class for a while, but as soon as he’d found out about her situation he’d gone to Dr. Nichols and managed to convince him to hire her back… she hadn’t known what to say.
“Why wouldn’t you want to go back? I know I wasn’t a great student, but you were a good professor. You rode us hard, and I know that I wasn’t grateful at the time, but I think you ought to go back. Come on, you got a PhD in sociology—that took years! You don’t want to go back? I’m sure you need a job, at least, right?”
She couldn’t help but smile a little. She’d been pretty upset with him for a while, over what happened, over the tat, the slutty dress code he’d imposed on her (that had required her to sell most of her decent clothes to even afford), and even a little that she’d fucked him and the little shit hadn’t even contacted her after. Hadn’t even come to class.
But to hear him now… well, for some reason she just couldn’t stay mad. Still… “Look, I… I found another job. One that pays better. I have all kinds of student debt, and I don’t know if I really want to go back.”
“A new job? Doing what? I can’t picture you as anything but Dr. Missy.”