Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors

Renaissance
www.renebooks.com

Copyright ©2003 Estate of David O. Dyer, Sr.

Leaving one hand on the steering wheel of the ‘66 Ford Mustang convertible, Tim tightly clutched his crotch in an effort to stem the urgency of his desperate need to urinate. For miles, he searched in vain for a service station or rest stop but the twisting narrow road offered no safe shoulder for parking a vehicle. He tensed every muscle of his lower extremities and muttered, “I haven't wet my pants since..."

The thought trailed off as finally the road straightened and he saw on his right an area that looked as if other motorists used it for similar purposes. Bringing the Mustang to a screeching stop on the graveled shoulder, he bolted from the door too quickly and felt a bit of moisture dampen his cotton jockey shorts. Slowing down and walking with a stiff legged, movie monster gait, he made it to the opposite side of the shiny red car, unzipped, and enjoyed the relief of nature finally taking its inevitable course.

“You can shake it, and shake it, and shake it and never get the last damned drop off,” he mumbled as a pickup truck passed, occupants staring. Shooting the disappearing truck a bird, he zipped up, pain free at last. As he started towards the passenger side of his beloved red convertible, he paused, trying to identify a faint sound that did not seem consistent with his surroundings. He shrugged his shoulders, but before taking another step he definitely heard the sound again—a faint wail, almost like a muffled human cry, coming from the densely wooded area behind him.

Tim cautiously made his way along a footpath that led into the dense foliage, intently listening. As the road disappeared from sight, he heard the sound again, louder this time. Quickening his pace, he suddenly emerged into a room sized clearing. The scene before him elicited an audible gasp. For what seemed like minutes he stood transfixed, confused, trying to assimilate the sight into awareness and action.

A completely nude, gagged and badly beaten woman, tied securely with her back against a large pine tree, locked her eyes on his. Her arms and legs, stretched and tied around the trunk of the tree, held her captive. No part of her anatomy touched the ground. She made no further sound, but her wide eyes and arched, unplucked eyebrows pleaded with Tim for help.

Embarrassed, both by his delayed action and the growing bulge between his legs, Tim rushed to the tree, fumbled in his pocket for his penknife and futilely tried to saw through the leg rope with the dull blade. Dropping the useless knife he tore at the knot at her left ankle and breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the rope loosen.

The muscles of her legs seemed frozen with the abuse they had received. Tim carefully helped her unwind from the tree trunk and get her feet on the ground. The effort evoked no cry of pain, but tears gushed from the woman's blue eyes. Tenderly Tim removed the gag from her mouth and pulled out what must have been her panties. As he successfully untied the knot securing her right wrist, she worked her mouth soundlessly, trying to lubricate her tongue.

She fell against him and Tim wrapped her in his arms to keep her upright. He felt her heart pounding and her small breasts punched into his chest as if they were made of iron. He knew she could feel his erection. For a moment longer than necessary, he held her, stroking her shoulder length, honey colored hair. It was sticky with perspiration.

In a voice that was hoarse and barely audible she said, “I need to sit down."

Tim glanced around the clearing. There was nothing for her to sit on but the pine needle covered dirt. He gently lowered her to the ground and she eased her bark-grated back against the tree. He pulled his shirt out of his pants and began undoing the buttons.

Startled, she pleaded, “Please don't."

Tim froze until comprehension wedged its way into his addled brain. “I'm going to give you my shirt to wear,” he explained. “I know I have an erection. I'm sorry. I've never engaged in sexual activity with a woman who didn't want to have sex with me and I'm not going to start now.” Too late he realized how stupid that must have sounded.

“Look. I'm rattled. I don't know what to do. I'm certainly not going to harm you. I need to get you to a hospital. Do you think you can walk?"

“No hospital. I'll be okay. Let me rest a little. Do you have anything to drink?"

“Yeah. I've got some diet colas in the trunk of my car."

What the hell am I supposed to do? Tim thought as he jerked open the trunk lid. He tore into a suitcase, yanked out a sweat suit and pair of sneakers and grabbed a very cold can of diet soda from the cooler.

Jogging back to the battered woman, he popped the top on the drink can, dropped to his knees and held it to her lips. Having somewhat recovered the painful use of her arms she took the cola and greedily gulped half of it.

Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead as he gazed at the imprint her nipples poked into the shirt.

“What's that?” she asked, nodding towards the clothing he held in his arms.

Thinking she was referring to the unwanted bulge in his pants, he held out the sweat suit and said, “I, uh, want my shirt back."

“No you don't,” she said. “You want another look at my flat chest."

Maybe she noticed the physical evidence of his arousal. The twinkle he saw in her eyes was difficult to believe. Could this woman, obviously suffering from horrible torment, be joking with him?

“Why do women think all men are turned on only by knee-knockers?” Tim tried to joke back. “Your breasts are absolutely beautiful."

“Are you trying to come on to me when I have obviously been brutally tortured and raped?” she shot back.

“I'm sorry,” Tim responded, confused by her sudden emotional change. “I don't know what I am saying. I don't know what to do. I'm trying to help."

“I know,” she softly said.

Tim sat beside her as she continued to sip her drink. He studied her long graceful legs and small feet with toenails painted red.

“Help me stand up,” she said, tossing aside the beverage can. “Let's see if we can get the sweat suit and shoes on me."

He placed the sweat suit on the ground, stood and held out his arms to her.

She grasped his hands and groaned as he pulled her erect. She leaned against his six-foot frame while brushing pine needles from her abused buttocks.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Pull the shirt off and have a good look."

Tim felt his face flush and shook his head. He moved behind her and forced his eyes to one side as the shirt pulled away from her breasts, shoulders and arms. He stooped and picked up the sweat suit jacket, and held it as she slipped her arms into it. Again he stooped and held the pants for her.

“Turn around and step into the pants,” he said.

A hint of a smile formed on her lips when she saw his tightly closed eyes. As she placed her hands on his shoulders for support she said, “Imagination is better than reality, is it?"

“Damn it, woman,” Tim sputtered. “I can't please you, can I?"

“Oh, God. Don't make me laugh. It hurts."

“You decent now?"

“I wouldn't say that, but everything is covered that might interest you unless you have a foot fetish. Look, I'll never be able to walk in those shoes. They're too big. Just put the athletic socks on me."

Tim complied. Her tiny hands clutching his shoulders fueled the flames he was trying to extinguish. Getting to his feet he asked, “Now what?"

“Do I have to do all the thinking?” Her eyes were twinkling again. This time he was certain.

Tim was surprised that she was able to walk at all. Her ability to sit in the shotgun seat without screaming out in pain was baffling. After buckling his lap belt he fired up his six cylinder rebuilt motor and listened for a moment to its soothing purr.

“Okay. According to you it's my turn to do the thinking.” He wrinkled his brow and forced a smile to his lips. “My name is Tim Dollar,” he said, extending his hand for an introductory shake.

“We have something in common,” she replied grasping his hand firmly. “I'm Sandy Dollar.” The twinkle was back, and Tim knew Dollar was not her real name.

“Here's the deal, Sandy. I must get you to a hospital in a hurry and I don't know where the hell to find one. There's a little town called Dot down this road, but I don't know how far it is and I doubt that they have a hospital."

“No hospital,” she shot back. “And no police.” There was no compromise in the tone of her voice.

“Excuse me, pretty lady, but you've had the shit beat out of you. You may have broken bones. Those cuts may get infected. You may be pregnant. You may have AIDS. You..."

She cut him short. “No hospitals, damn it. I'll be all right. I just need a little time to recuperate. I'm on the pill. They used rubbers...” Except in my mouth, she thought as her voice trailed off.

“Damn.” He ran his fingers through his short, brown hair. “Okay then. Where do you live?"

“No place."

“What?"

“I don't have a home. I don't have a family. I don't have any friends. I don't have any money. I don't have any clothes. I have nothing. Understand?"

“No, I don't,” Tim replied. He shook his head as she leaned against the window. They both fell silent. Tim put the Mustang in gear and pulled out onto the two-lane country road.

Sandra turned her head and looked at her benefactor. Nice looking guy, she thought. “Where do you live, Tim?” she asked, her voice much calmer.

He laughed. “Nowhere."

“Are you mocking me?"

He shook his head. “The short story is I'm between jobs and between homes. Everything I own that my ex-wife doesn't have is in the trunk of my car."

“Just divorced, huh?"

“No. It was seven years ago. I'm over it now,” he lied.

“Yeah, sure.” The twinkle was back.

“I am the last of the line as far as my family goes. I have an uncle, or had an uncle, who lived in Dot. I guess I met him when I was a child, but I don't remember him. Anyway, some lawyer sent me a letter. He said Uncle Pete bought the farm and left me a house and some kind of store. I was on my way to collect my fortune when I ran into you."

As he spoke, a roadside sign whizzed by which read, “Dot—30 miles."

Sandra turned her head away from Tim, smiled thinly, and said, “Then let's go to Dot."

Tim took a deep breath. “Man,” he said as he exhaled noisily, “I have enough problems deciding my own future. Now I've got to figure out what to do with you."

“What are your plans, Tim?"

“I don't know. Well, that's not quite true. I thought I'd live in my uncle's house until I can sell it and the business."

“What kind of business is it?"

“The lawyer didn't say. It must not be much."

“Did your uncle leave you any money?"

“That's none of your business, lady."

“You're right. I'm sorry."

“The lawyer's letter didn't say anything about it. Maybe a few dollars."

Tim glanced in Sandra's direction. Her eyes spoke more convincingly than words, and they seemed to be pleading with him as she asked, “Tim, can I hang out with you for a while?"

He jerked his head forward and unconvincingly replied, “No. I've enough trouble of my own. There'll be somebody in Dot who can help you—Social Services, police, a church or charity of some kind—somebody."

She sensed his uncertainty. “Do you believe in God Timothy?"

“Don't call me Timothy. I hate it."

“Okay, Tim, but do you believe in God?"

“Sure,” he replied hesitantly, “but I found out a long time ago he ain't Santa Claus."

“She isn't Santa Claus,” Sandra corrected.

“I'm not going to get into a theological debate with you. I learned better than that a long time ago too. If you want to believe God's a woman, its okay with me."