Chapter 6B

After losing my baby, my life took a turn. To the worse, but then, like a miracle, my life was once again restored.

This series is about a young girl coming of age in a world shaped by defiance, of the rules I was taught, of the shame imposed on my body, of the silence expected of me, and my own identity. I sought out freedom in dangerous places, chasing experiences that blurred the line between rebellion and self-discovery.

I created a world of my own, where desire dictated the rules and innocence was redefined, and I ended up choosing the wrong path.

Important disclaimer:
All characters are over 18 years old in this part.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. As a non-native English speaker (I’m Swedish), please forgive the occasional grammatical error or awkward phrasing.

Characters:
Me, Sarah, 26 at this time
Glenn, The Doc, My Gynecologist 58
Stan, My lawyer, 56

Ok, ready to go? Let’s roll, part 6-2

Part 6 - my Pregnancy didn’t quite turn out the way it ought to...

Part 2 - The lawyer.

Even though I hadn’t wanted this baby in the first place, losing her broke something deep inside me that I didn’t even know could break. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was relief twisted into shame, I don’t know. I’d been selling my pussy and asshole to men to survive, just like my mother before me, trading pieces of myself to men whose names I didn’t cared to know.
It was no place to bring a little baby girl into, no life to hand down. Still, when I miscarried in the ninth month, it felt like the world collapsed.

I couldn’t stand to stay in that apartment afterward, the hand-downs baby clothes folded in drawers, the tiny old crib mocking me in the corner.
Every room was a graveyard of what might have been. So I packed what I could carry and left, and moved to another town, trying to outrun the heavy grief and self-hatred that stuck to me like a second skin.

That’s where the use started. At first, it was just pills, something to numb the dreams, to help me sleep, to make the world fuzzier around the edges so the pain wasn’t so sharp. But soon pills weren’t enough. The people I met showed me other ways to check out, powders, meth, cheap heroin cut with God knows what. We’d smoke it, shoot it, snort it, anything to quiet that voice screaming inside me that I was worthless, a failure, a mother who couldn’t even keep her own baby alive.

Six months later, I ended up with a crowd that thrived on chaos. Dealers, petty thieves, drifters, people who didn’t care what laws they broke as long as they got what they wanted. We boosted electronics, lifted wallets, and ran small scams. Sometimes I’d lure guys with a smile, get them drunk, and my so-called “friends” would rob them blind, and if that didn’t work, there was always my pussy. Either way we always made money on those rides.
I was no girl you’d ever bring home to meet your parent, I was a mess, living rough, bruised, high, sleeping in squats or cars, fucking dirty men for money. I hated myself.

And after an other six months, the law caught up with us. A sting operation at one of our “safe” houses went sideways. They charged me with possession with intent to distribute, plus accessory to burglary after I’d acted as a lookout on a break-in a few weeks before. By then, I was half-dead anyway, running on nerves and chemicals, and I barely registered the handcuffs on my wrists.

The judge set bail, and I made damn sure one of my Johns paid it, no way was I spending another night in that filthy cell. They called it my first offense, and the fact that I’d lost my babygirl might have played in as well. They said I was more a victim than a real criminal, just another broken girl who’d lost her way. But there was a catch: I wasn’t supposed to leave town. One slip, they warned me, and I’d serve every single day of that sentence behind bars.

I wasn’t about to wait around for the system to chew me up. I bolted again, hopped a bus to anywhere, chasing the numbness that might finally drown out what I’d lost and what I’d become. I was gone, skipping town once again like a stray dog no one wanted. No bail, no second chances, just the dirty freedom of being on the run.

The new town was mean, anonymous, and perfect for someone like me.
I fell back into hustling, scamming, and doing what I had to do to eat and stay high. It didn’t take long before I slipped up. Got pinched lifting a wallet from a drunk in a dive bar and wound up in a holding cell. They booked me under a fake name, but I knew the charges were going to stick.

I was appointed a public defender, a crooked lawyer who had a nose for desperate cases like mine. He was slick, with that fake smile and shiny shoes, the kind of guy who knew exactly how to twist the law into knots. He offered to help me “keep things quiet,” no questions asked, for a price. And back then, I was ready to pay anything, just to stay invisible a little longer.

The next day, I went to his office. He motioned me to a chair in front of his desk and came and stood in front of me, lounged back against his desk, and unzipped his trousers and tugged out his cock.

“Suck it!” he commanded sharply, and I guess I just sat there with my mouth open.
“C’mon, Mrs Julie Adams, I want a blow job! NOW!” He leaned forward toward my face, which was just at his crotch level, and put his long, limp cock in my hands while I tried to think what to do. What the hell was going on here? What did he think I was? He answered that.

He leaned in close, close enough that I could see the nicotine stains on his teeth and smell the stale whiskey clinging to his breath. His smirk was thin and cruel.

“Don’t play cute with me, sweetheart,” he sneered, voice like a rusty knife.
“I know exactly who you are, a little cheap little runaway who thinks shaking her ass and batting those sad-girl eyes is gonna buy her a clean slate.”

My heart was pounding so fast, I had never been this scared in my life.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he pressed, eyes glinting like cold steel.

“Don’t play games with me. I know exactly who you are. You’re no Mrs. Julie Adams, not even close. You’re Sarah McArthur, the little bail-skipper.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping into a poisonous whisper.

“You listen to me. You either cooperate, or I swear to God I’ll have you shipped back faster than you can cry for mommy. And when they drag your sorry ass back to Iowa, you’ll be doing two years in a cell, you cheap little whore.”

It wasn’t until later that evening that I wondered how he knew I came from Iowa.

I tried to look away, but he grabbed my chin, hard enough to hurt.

“Look at me,” he growled. “You think you can con me? You think you can skip town again, leave all this behind? Don’t even try it. I know every filthy thing you’ve done. Selling yourself to every two-bit John with a crumpled dollar bill. The busted baby, the crib you never needed. I know it all.”

My stomach twisted, but he wasn’t finished.

“If you even breathe about running,” he went on, his grip digging deeper into my jaw, “I’ll make one call and have the cops slap those cuffs on you so fast your whore head will spin. And this time? You’ll do every damn day behind bars. Count on it.”

He finally let go, leaving a hot ache where his fingers had pressed into my skin.

“Now,” he said, adjusting his wrinkled tie like nothing had happened, “be a good girl, stick out your tongue and suck my cock.
If you screw this up again, I’ll bury you.”

His smooth attorney’s veneer was gone, and he was just another dirty old man.

“I ... how did ... You find out?” I stammered.
“Non of your fucking business. SUCK MY COCK...

Part of me didn’t like the circumstances at all, but as I sat there and grabbed his cock, my warm hands had apparently communicated with my dirtier side, and, as his meat had hardened perceptibly, I jerked him off.
It was a funny-looking pecker, different from any that I’d experienced. It was about six inches long, limp, and no bigger around than my thumb, and he wasn’t circumcised. As I petted it and got ready to kiss it and suck it, I could feel the blood rushing through and into it, and it stiffened up rapidly. But it didn’t get any bigger! It was still a six-inch skinny cock! It ended up looking like a big, expensive cigar, long and maybe only an inch in diameter, with this fold of skin over the tip.