7 - Tuesday Judith Has a Problem
by TMax
Copyright© 2024 by TMax
Drama Sex Story: Tragedy befalls Judith, and she struggles to deal with the powerful emotions that consume her world. Note: Suicide and Rape trigger warning.
Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Rough First Oral Sex Clergy Violence .
I don’t know what to do. The cheque sits on my desk, centered perfectly between my homework and my stack of dirty dishes.
I wanted the channel to help people, not make money. Now, a cheque sits on my desk, more money than Dad makes in a month. I don’t have a bank account, and I cannot get cash for a cheque so large, which means I must tell my mom. She will clap in joy, but I didn’t start the channel for money. I wanted to help others and not make money, which cheapens my effort.
I brush my teeth while I focus on the cheque on my desk.
“Jude, you done yet?” Mom’s new boyfriend pounds on the door, vibrating the flower picture on the wall. How can I answer someone while brushing my teeth?
“Ahhhmosss,” I say, causing white and blue spittle to spray over the mirror.
“Jude!” more vibrating pictures.
I reach back and unlock the door. Larry sprints in and drops his black-stained jeans before farting as he sits on the mud-brown toilet. His fat belly roll rests above his bright, red, tan line.
“Thanks,” he grunts and winces. Mom claims he overeats cheese.
I spit in the sink, and the white glob trickles alongside the hard water stain and swirls down the tarnished silver drain.
“I’m going need you later,” he grunts, his face red while tiny beads of sweat drip down his forehead.
“What about Mom?” I pick at a stray eyebrow and push my hair behind my ears.
“Sleeping,” he grimaces before a little plop of water resonates around the room.
“Damn it, she’s gonna make us late again,” I storm to her room, pick the lock, and turn on the light.
Mom lays half off the bed, a naked leg resting on the floor, while a heap of covers lay on her. A brown-stained pink dildo lies touching her foot.
“Mom, school. Mom!” I shake her knee below her rash. “Mom!” I shake harder.
What did Morgan sell her? While often tired in the morning, she hasn’t even groaned. “Mom!” I scream as I rip the covers off, throwing them on the floor, covering the dildo, the small pieces of tin foil, Larry’s underwear, and her short black dress from last night.
No groan, no movement, nothing - damn, we need to leave in ten minutes.
“Larry, can you drive us to school?” I call with my fingers crossed that mom wakes to my yelling.
“No, why can’t you drive yourself?” Larry yells back while he runs the water.
“No license yet. Remember, that was supposed to be this weekend,” I stomp to the bathroom door, hoping Larry won’t say no to a naked teenager, right? His erect penis doesn’t say no, but he does.
“Can’t, have to be at work in five minutes. I’ll get fired if I’m late again.” He pushes past me, his elbow grazing my nipple, and his hand squeezes my ass.
“What do I do then?” I ask.
“Fuck if I know,” he calls from the bedroom, throwing the blanket into the hall.
Great, now what?
“Just take your mom’s car,” he yells and walks out of the bedroom in a Gas-to-Go shirt.
Sure, why not? I rush to get dressed and drive to get Sally. Sally appears much better today, with no sweating, only minor hip wiggles.
“You’re driving? Alone?” she asks, pushing hamburger wrappers onto the floor before gently sitting.
“Sure, why not?” I press the pedal down hard, squealing the tires.
“Watch the per...” Sally starts, but the car has already rocketed past.
“Hey, Sally, can I ask you a question?” I bite my lower lip.
Her lavender scent slowly replaces the stale, musty odor in the car, “Sure.”
“So, I did something to help people, just cause, right, but now, they want to pay me, and well, is it, you know, helping if they pay you?”
“Sure.”
“No, what I mean is it was not a hard thing, and the payment is way too much. It feels wrong, which doesn’t mean it is wrong.”
“Maybe.”
“And if it’s wrong, I say no, right? But I didn’t ask to get paid, and it’s a lot of money, like really a lot.”
“Ok.”
“I would give it away, but it’s a cheque, and I don’t have an account, but Mom and Larry do, but they can’t know what I’m doing, and they would, for sure, ask.”
“Yes.”
“So, what do I do?”
“Well.”
“Yeah, best to rip it up. Thanks, Sally.”
I pull up behind Sam’s ugly blue truck on the side of the street. The car jerks forward and back, causing Sally to brace herself on the dashboard.
“How was, you know?” I ask her.
“Good.”
I exit the car, almost in an oily puddle, but awkwardly step around it. Off balance, it takes me three tries to get the door closed.
“Have you asked Sam to fix that?” Sally asks, glancing right and left.
“Na, it’s Mom’s, right,” I respond, jumping between the two vehicles. We lock arms and saunter toward school.
“So, what are you asking today?” we ask each other in unison.
She smacks my shoulder, “You first.”
I rub the spot, “Well, I was wondering, if someone kisses you down there, and they have cum on their lips, could you get pregnant?”
“Sure, well, of course, you can.”
“But remember the panties and the toilet seat and stuff, cause, like, I’m not sure, and the internet always seems to get these things wrong.”
“Yeah, but if someone sticks a tongue in, and it has cum on it, how is that different from a penis?”
“Great point. So, I’ll ask it and find out, and then we’ll know and won’t have to worry about our future husbands or each other.”
We both pull the double doors open and stride into the noisy hallway.
“So, like, what are you going to ask?” I ask as I wave at Mary.
She doesn’t wave back. She never waves back, but one day she will.
“It’s a secret.” Sally glances away from me, waving at Sam.
“But, like, I totally told you, my question.”
“Yeah, that’s why you went first.”
“You’re, like, such a bitch.”
“You know it.”
I peek up as Mrs. Foley hands out her flyers.
“Don’t give in,” she frowns at me.
“I won’t?” I stammer.
When school finishes, I speed home to rip up the cheque, but it’s gone.
Where?
A ring ricochets around my room, bouncing off the green walls. Another ring stabs my ear drums.
I somehow know before I answer the phone. My heart rate accelerates while my lungs refuse to work.
“Judith ... Hospital ... Susan ... coma ... Larry ... overdose ... Sorry.”
“Thanks,” I mumble and put the phone in my plastic purse.
The room spins, and my vision streaks with white and red. The carpet pokes my cheek until I push myself up and stumble through the house. Bouncing off walls, I fumble open the front door and leave it open for reasons that make no sense.
The oil-scented breeze tickles my cheeks and dries the moisture.
After two tries, I close the car door while I navigate our street.
A car horn blasts as I pass an optional red sign.
The bang deafens me, and a white bag of air comforts me.
Someone yells.
The car door does not close, even after five attempts.
An open door, with music, someplace better than here.
“I got you, babe.” A thin, white, black-striped fellow sings, leaning back, mouth wide, holding a fist in the air.
“I got you to hold my hand.”
I sit at a round table in shadow, with a half-finished drink in the middle and a jacket on the opposite chair.
“I got you to understand.”
But I don’t. Not anymore. I gulp the burning drink and can not resist my head as it falls onto the table.
“I got you to walk with me.”
My hands on my head hold back the room pressure, my pulse smashes my temples, and the stale beer reminds me of Larry.
“I got you to talk with me.”
A hand touches my shoulder - Mom? I squint at the middle-aged woman, hair too dark, too much eye shadow, too thin - not Mom.
“I got you to kiss goodnight.”
She shakes me. It doesn’t matter. My head bangs back down on a wet spot.
“I got you to hold me tight.”
All because of the cheque. Instead of ripping it up, I entertained the idea of cashing it. I wanted the riches.
“I got you, I won’t let go.”
The woman shakes my shoulder, but my body stays still, and my head stays planted. God’s wish for my failure.
“I got you to love me so.”
The woman leaves but without her coat, a nice leather coat.
What do I do? I don’t deserve to live. I killed Larry. I lost Mom. The off-tone song finally ends.
I don’t want to live. Not like this. But how? A knife on my wrists might work, but I have no knife and too much mess. A gun? Poison? We have rat poison at home. Shit, why did I leave home? Maybe alcohol, or better, drugs. Fentanyl kills lots of people. Where do I buy some?
“Excuse me, you can’t sit there, and you can’t be here. You will have to come with me.”
I lift my head to stare at a blurry, scowling man with a deep scar on his head. I don’t want to meet him in a dark alley. “Up,” strong hands slip across my wrinkled, wet school shirt and pull me up by my armpits. Scarhead drags me, or maybe I walk, to a black door with white streaks and gouges. The gold, oily handle gleams in the half-light.
The room has a gun metal desk covered with a leather pad and ashtray. Two white butts stick out of the dead ash, but strangely, the room smells of rose and sweat, not smoke.
He places me in a brown leather chair, cracked with age, and sits across from me, bare arms crossed, black jagged ink accenting his bulging muscles.
“You cost me a drink,” he growls. He reminds me of a dog, not a pit bull type, but a little yappy dog that barks because everything frightens them.
“Sorry, I guess,” I say as I lean back to study his bright blue eyes, sexy blue eyes, soft lips, red as if he has lipstick on.
“You guess. How old are you? Never mind, you’re too young. My sister went to your school. You’re in high school,” his voice threatens.
A gold chain lays across his hairless, well-defined upper chest. I bet he has drugs. All street thugs have drugs. Would he give me some if I asked? But how do I ask? Do I need a code word or a secret handshake?
He stares at me. No, he undresses me with his eyes. They dart between my bare knees, up to my hands in my lap, and then to my breasts that push out my shirt before restarting at my knees.
“Do you have any, you know?” I stammer out.
“Any?” He scrutinizes me, gazing into my eyes. What does he think? Does he suspect I will turn informant? Or worse, I act as an undercover cop?
A toxic, sour odor invades the small space. The soundproof room silences the outside world. My heart rate rises while doubts bounce around my head, and he returns his stare to my heaving chest.
“Stand up and take off your shirt.”
Does he think I wear a wire? It happens in cop shows. Do I? No, but what if he thinks I have one?
He leans closer, and beer assaults my senses. Long, thin fingers undo my top button. With my bra visible, he can tell I don’t have a wire, so can I get drugs? He undoes my middle button and exposes my whole bra and middle chest. Do police have wires this low? He undoes my third to last, my second to last, my last button. He untucks my shirt and pulls it off, causing the warm, stuffy air to cool my skin, and beads of sweat trickle down my arms and belly.
Does he want to rape me? I deserve that for what I did. I deserve that and so much more.
“Stand.” I stand. The thin fingers undo my skirt. It falls to the floor like a dead bird, unrecognizable on the dirty floor.
“You are a good-looking little girl,” he coos beside my ear. His slimy tongue licks my ear lobe before he pushes me down on the table. The leather smells of dead cows, toxic smoke, and raspberry jam while it grows slimy with my tears.
He grabs the edges of my bra and pulls it down. My breasts hurt as gravity pulls them. He pushes me forward, smearing my slimy tears down my chin, neck, and chest. My nipples hurt as they rub across the cold metal desk and the dry leather.
I stare at a small white hole in the wall. My little finger would fit perfectly. Small, barely visible cracks radiate from it. The tiny lines radiate like short, cut hairs - fine silky hair.
His rough fingers run down my back, pressing hard until they arrive at my panties. His body leans down on my back as his beer breath overpowers the leather smell.
“White granny panties. Are these your mom’s?”
No, not my mom’s, though she did buy them for me. Larry hates them, also. Larry hated them. Dead Larry. The one I killed. My body goes limp, waiting for what I deserve.
“You want this,” he whispers before pulling my panties down. His knuckles scrap my engorged cunt, sending uncontrolled twitches up my back and down my legs.
“You’re very wet.”
Even my body knows I need punishment for what I did. Will I get killed after? That would solve the problem.
Why didn’t I rip the cheque up as soon as it arrived? I didn’t need the money. God tested me, and I failed his test. And I killed Larry and soon my mom. I just wanted to help people.
His belt buckle slams onto the floor with a loud clang. His penis, thinner than Larry’s, rips through my pussy lips and splits my cunt in two as my face rubs up and down in the leather slime.
“God, you’re tight.”
The little hole in the wall moves back and forth while his grunting grows louder. My focus stays on the little hole in the wall. A peephole or a camera with someone recording this? Right now, a person could sit in a smaller room, staring at a monitor as I get fucked?
Rough hands pull my hips higher and backward while the dick slams into me. Squashing noises accompany his grunting. Would the person who watches stop this? No, I deserve this. God needs to punish me for what I did.
Maybe not a camera hole, too low on the wall, but possibly a bullet hole. This room must have a gun in it. Could I find and use it? Movies always show the ease of gun suicide.
“Do you have a gun?” I ask, each word punctuated by a grunt.
His hands jerk me up but slip, causing me to fall on the table before landing on the cold concrete ground. I stare up at his erect penis, dripping my fluid onto my forehead while he sneers down at me. “Suck it!” he commands.
My lips wrap around the penis head and begin to suck it. Strong hands grip the back of my head, entangling in my hair, and push my head into him. The long penis hits the back of my throat, causing bile and stomach acid to fill my throat as I gasp for air. Snot mixes with his pubic hair as tears track down my cheeks and drip off my chin. Back and forth, he slams my head, forcing bile up and out my nose, burning the sensitive skin.
“Fuck, YES!”
I drown, and my hands push against him, but he holds me too tight. In reflex, I bite him. His fist smashes against my temple, and my head slams into the floor with a loud splat.
“Fucking, Bitch!” he screams.
He holds his penis as his black boot slams into my body. Why doesn’t it hurt? The boot kicks me over and over, vibrating my bones with each impact, but nothing hurts. Will he kill me? I deserve it, but finally, the boots stop, and music fills the room before the door slams.
The cold ground holds me while my eyes grow dry. I push the slimy stuff around my face, trying to clean it, as bile, sperm, and blood leak out of my mouth and onto the floor.
I want to pass out. No, I just want this to end. Will I die? I hope so. Music again fills the room.
“Oh, my god, what happened?” a long-haired guy stammers while firm, callused hands lift me.
Will he fuck me? Do I need to suck him?
He pulls my head into his cotton jacket. The musty smoke smell reminds me of Larry. Instinctively, I reach down for his penis, for what I deserve.
“No.”
Why not? Does he think of me as worthless? I try to lift my face, but he holds me tight to his body. “I’ll call Father Leon,” his gravelly voice causes me to wince as I shake my head and try to pull away.
I attempt to pull away and hide beneath the desk, but he holds me too tight and too close to get away. I hit him to release me. My fist smashes against his flexed arm muscle under his thick jacket, but he doesn’t even wince. Over and over, I try to get away, but he just holds me tighter. I don’t deserve his comfort. I deserve his scorn and punishment.
My body finally stills, and I slump into his arms. Too tired to fight and too exhausted to move. He keeps one arm around me tight against his musty jacket, with undertones of dirt. He pulls a white phone from his pocket and taps numbers on the screen. Holding it against his head, he speaks, “Father Leon, please.”
A long pause ensues while I push to get away, but he holds me too securely.
“It’s Paul Jensen, Father. I have a student at the club.” Another pause. Gross stuff flakes off my cheek, and I squirm in his grip.
“I’ll bring her,” he says, taps the bright red button on his phone, and then says, “Stay still. I’m gonna take you to the church.”
“No!” I scream and frantically push away from him. His one arm holds my head while he squeezes my naked back and belly.
“Stay still! Just fucking stay still,” he says as my hand knocks his white phone into the air. It flips, and the bright screen leaves streaks in the air until it lands with a crack, and the screen turns black.
“Fucking, shit,” he holds me tighter.
Is he going to hit me or kick me? I deserve it since I broke his phone. He lets me go, and I fall to the floor, curling into a small ball, protecting my head, offering my back for his boot. He reaches down to my ass, another rape. I deserve it. Instead, he adjusts my panties before pulling up my bra.
“Jesus, you’re a fucking mess,” he says and picks up his phone, “and I just bought the fucking thing.” He flings the phone across the room, ricocheting off and denting the wall before falling into the corner with a final crack. He bends to hit me but grabs my shirt before roughly shifting and pushing me to a sitting position.
“You could help,” but I stay slumped, with my arms limp at my sides.
“Fine,” he grunts as he lifts my right arm, slips it through the shirt armhole, and then lifts the left, causing my hand to catch on the edge.
“Fuck!”
He bends my hand awkwardly, pushing and shoving it into the hole. I stare at his face as I grow redder, and his eyes narrow.
“Fucking fuck!” he yells as he notices the shirts on backward. I laugh, but why?
“It’s not fucking funny. I’m fucking leaving it,” he says, grabs my skirt, and hauls me to stand. I sway as I grin at him. He grunts and puts his hand on my foot for me to lift it, but I don’t.
“Fine.”
He retches my foot up, and I almost fall, giggling at his red face as his hair covers his eyes. My foot lands with a slap in the pool of tears, snot, and bile-laced cum. He tries to lift my other foot, but I hold it down. He glances up at my grin and growls like a bear, a shaggy brown bear. I giggle and lift my foot.
“THANK YOU!” the bear grunts and pulls up my skirt, fastening it around my waist.
“Let’s get the shirt turned around,” but I shake my head because I don’t care about my shirt.
“Fine, let’s get you to the church.”
He turns, shoulders hunched, long hair hanging down to the top of my head. “Hospital,” I squeak out. My voice emerges raspy, unused in a thousand years.
“What? Why?” he pauses and scrutinizes me.
“Mom’s in the hospital. And Steve’s dead.”
He opens, closes, and then opens his mouth again, “Fine.”
He turns, leaving his hand for me. I stare at the plump pink hand, the scar across his palm, the shortened pinky finger. My hand slowly lifts and touches another human’s moist, warm skin.
The door opens to loud music as he pulls me. I stumble into the dark, bright-lighted bar with its laughing, happy, pathetic people.
“I’m taking the truck,” the bear shouts as he grabs a set of keys from under the brown, water-shining bar.
My rapist laughs at him, and the asshole shouts from the other end of the long bar, “I’ve had her. Enjoy!”
Paul waves at him and pulls me closer. “He’s an asshole,” he whispers. I smile at him and wrap an arm around my protector bear.
The cool, outside air tickles my naked back, but it doesn’t matter - nothing matters.
Mom’s car still sits broken on the curb with a yellow piece of paper stuck to the cracked windshield. Glass and debris lay in the intersection, but no other vehicle. I did that, killed Steve, and put Mom in a coma, and then I destroyed her car! My body slumps to the ground. Rocks push into my legs while my head rests on the filthy concrete.
Paul lifts me into an enormous black truck, almost slamming the door on my foot. The cold leather pushes the stuck rocks deeper into my thighs. I adjust to remove them but regret it, as I deserve the pain and discomfort.
Paul hops in, and the truck growls as he pulls away from the curb.
I pull at the seat belt, but in frustration and copying the bear, I leave it off. Maybe we will crash, and I will fly through the windshield, ending this pain. Would God do that for me?
A car screeches to a stop behind us, honking as the driver leans out the window screaming, “You’re a fucking idiot!” Paul stops the truck and hops out with a crowbar. The driver rolls up his window, puts the car in reverse, and almost gets away before Paul smashes the crowbar on the front taillight.
Paul tosses the crowbar in the back. A thud startles me as it lands on a thick canvas tarp. He shifts the truck into gear and drives away as he closes the door.
The strobing streetlights calm my racing mind. I wiggle on the seat as my vagina throbs. I wipe at my eyes, smearing the blackness more but getting most of the dried slime off.
Paul reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a black phone. How many does he need? He dials with both hands, his elbows guiding the truck on the almost empty road. A red stoplight appears and then disappears behind us.
“Father, it’s Paul. I’m bringing her to the hospital,” he pauses and starts driving with his hand instead of elbows.
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