Millie 90 lbs of Dynamite: Blog

Vengeance is Mine is my latest story, it begins like this, "In Millie's Vast Expanse, not every story has a happy ending - not all lives are sunshine and rainbows. Demons walk among us, they move in the shadows watching, waiting for the opportunity to devour those they can."

It is a story of justice or at least a raw, vigilante revenge justice, "Offered up for your approval, the life and times of one Elizabeth "Shortcake" Dyer, a woman slight of stature, with an enormous intellect, who pursues retribution with a dogged determination that would make a bulldog proud. A deeply scarred woman who never wallowed in self-pity but channeled her rage to helping others. When she ran into brick walls in the pursuit of justice, she manufactured vengeance, for, after all, vengeance has its own sufficiency."

I'm partial to this story, and not just because I wrote it. I sometimes don't like my own stories but this one I do like and I hope you will like it as well.

Check it out here http://storiesonline.net/s/13750/vengeance-is-mine

I recently joined twitter and now have a facebook page. So follow me on twitter https://twitter.com/MillieDynamite and like me on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/Millie-Dynamite-559060770925607/ . I will be making regular comments on both and would love if you joined in the conversations.
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Millie
Just 90 lbs of Dynamite big bada boom!

A publishing company contacted me wanting to publish some of my short stories and wants me to write more just for them to publish in a digital format. My writer friend is probably behind this effort, and I was hesitant to venture into this world.

After several long discussions with both my writer friend and Jo, I have accepted their offer. They are currently having my story "The Remembrance of the Reluctant Representative" edited and I am working on several more stories for them. They want to publish three stories at one time with perhaps one of them being a free thing.

I will still publish most of my stories here, but they may ask that some of the ones they handle not be up for free. The stories that they publish will be a tamer nature than those that go here - just the nature of the beast, rape stories are verboten, as are incest, in the main stream publishing erotica. That is not because of the publisher's or the sales outlets, oddly, it is because of the credit card companies.

I do not think my stories will sell well, but it was an ego boost for them to ask me to write for them..

This is my third posting about my early life on the street. It will probably be the last for a while about this subject, I bet y'all are sick of hearing bout it.


After a few weeks a small shop closed on south Robinson, in moving to a new location, the pawnshop abandoned this one. The owner left the electric in the store on thinking that a lighted interior would discourage vandals. At some point in the past, in an effort to go straight, Little Momma had cleaned for several of the shops that lined the streets of the avenue, including the pawn shop. She had kept her key to the back entrance and quite to our surprise the key worked.


The back room was a dusty, nasty room filled with rows of shelving and a small, filthy bathroom. We salvaged a couple of mattresses from behind a nearby motel and started to operate out of the place. It was an odd feeling, living in an abandoned building. Of course, we weren't there all that much it was just a place to sleep. We would partially open the door to the sales floor of the building so we could watch the action on the street in the early morning.


At night, when we weren't out working the street, we would sit behind the counter, low where anyone who looked in would perceive us as just shadows, and we watched the goings on of the avenue. If you weren't involved in the petty bickering between one whore and another, it was comical to watch. One butchy bitch is shaking a fist at some scraggly street walker for intruding on her corner. Less comical was when pimps punished one of their girls.


His belt with its oversized western brass buckle, a rolled up wire hanger, a broken mop handle, or just his booted foot - a pimp can turn almost anything into a weapon of punishment. Watching some big angry man kick some girl's ass repeatedly as she crawls on her hands and knees desperate to get away becomes a preverted form of entertainment.


I remember watching this big black man doing just that, kicking a little white woman, her on her hands and knees crawling away, each time she moves he takes a step and pounds his pointy boot toe into one check or the other. He had already taken her money and beat her till she fell to ground, as she tried to get away from the assault he just followed along kicking her. Sometimes he would plow his boot to her ass so hard her face would crash into the sidewalk. The johns just drove on, and the other whores yelled out encouraging his actions.


Little Momma explained there is something comforting when it is someone else taking the punishment. "She shouldn't have held out on him," she said lighting a cigarette she left her Bic lighter on and I leaned in to light my smoke as well. "Yeah, having a pimp is awful but not having one ain't good either." She made a comment about the smooth color of my skin and added, "Wish my skin was all one smooth color."


I remember this night so very clear, I thought about it the other night when I saw an old blue van drive by from the window of our apartment. It all rushed back to me like a familiar movie playing on TV it played out in mind. After the pimp kicked her ass from one corner to the next he left. The other girls gathered around her and helped her up. A big blue van pulled up, and all the girls refused to get in with the guy. He drove away to try his luck with other girls further down the street.


"Don't get in no van unless you can see it is empty except for the driver. If they got a motherfucking curtain don't get in that shithole no matter what," she told me. She didn't elaborate, but I followed her instructions for a good six months. Then, for a no reason, I got in a van with a curtain behind the driver. Maybe it was because it was late November or early December and I was freezing, maybe it was because I hadn't turned a trick for hours, I don't remember why but the words, "Don't get in," didn't seem as important that night. He said he wanted a blowjob, and we were just going to pull in an ally. As soon as we turned off the street he said, "now," - from behind the curtain this hand grabbed me by the hair and dragged me into the back of the van. I was kicking and screaming but hands were all over me, holding me, tearing my coat off, my shirt, my jeans. There was name calling and taunting and men about to do what they wanted.


Five 20 something boys took turns raping me, slapping and spitting on me, and then beat me senseless. At one point every hole was filled at the same time. They took my hard earned money, dumped me naked, bruised and battered back on Robinson Ave. All through it, they laughed at me, insulted me, and told me what a worthless piece of meat I was. I remember the words, jungle bunny whore, and nigger cunt the most.


I stayed off the street for about a week. Little momma took care of me in the back of that storefront. She worked twice as many hours as usual, and I have no idea how many johns she sucked off or fucked that week, but she brought me more food than we usually ate. I learned my lesson I treated vans with respect after that. The truth is it can happen with a regular car, an SUV or you can be dragged off the street into an alley. After that, I never made it easy for anyone.


I think my interest in horror and terror started between my daddy's tender loving birthday present, which drove me away from home, and that incident. There were other times I was raped and robbed, but those two rapes are the ones I think of most often. Even now the most horrible thought I have, on any given day, is my fathers face above me, his sputum flying over my face as he calls me his, "Good little girl," and he's poking me with his prick.


And so, I write and do violence to those that did awful things to me. The terrible things I write about are this cathartic therapy allowing me to shit out the filth from my soul.

My first night on the street was difficult, not it was harder than that. I found Robinson Ave. and the place was shithole. Old dilapidated buildings, nasty looking convenience stores, bars, all kinds of women, and of course men. I was asked for a 'date' by young guys, old guys, middle aged guys, and guys not quite in any category. There were rough looking men in rundown auto's, respectable looking fellows in more expensive cars, then there were the other ones - the ones that gave me the willies. All in all, there must have fifty offers of which, I accepted exactly two.

One was a kindly looking Black grandpa type. That one was my big mistake, he fucked me, then put me over his knee and spanked me raw, took my money, tossed me out of his car and yelled at me to get my nigger ass back home. At midnight, without a penny to my name, I sat on the grimy ground of the park with my back to the locked door of a restroom balling my eyes out.

"What you doing out here child?" a soft voice asked me, I looked up at a woman that wasn't all that old, or all that big. Her chocolate milk skin was a light splotchy mocha color, her hair was nappy, she was dressed in a slinky red dress and stood with one hand on a hip. She scowled down at me. I just sat there looking at her, "You deaf?" she asked me, I shook my head.

"Then open you little mouth and motherfucking answer me, what the fuck you doing out of you house at midnight in this neighbor hood?" She tapped her toe as she spoke, it was obvious she was getting perturbed with me.

"I got no where to go," I said. "I did what they wanted but the last one took my money."

"Runaway huh? Well alright then, they call me little momma, you can just call me momma. Okay I got me a room tonight let's go there, we'll get you some McDonalds on the way - you like happy meals?" I nodded my head. "What's your name child?"

"My name's Lakeisha," I said.

"You like that name?" I shook my head, "Don't worry we will find one you do like."

That night watching TV a movie was on called Thoroughly Modern Millie and said, "I like her name."

"That's a nigger slave name," she told me.

"She ain't no nigger or a slave," I protested.

"But Tilly and Millie were the most common slave names for house nigger women," she said.

"I don't care I like that name."

I've been Millie since that day.