Me and My Uncle Ch. 12

When I got to St. Louis on the bus, I took a taxi to a clean, inexpensive motel and settled in.

I bought a newspaper and scanned the classifieds for inexpensive cars. I found two or three that looked promising and made arrangements to meet the owners to see them and drive them. When I called about them, I told the owners that I didn't have a way to get to them, so could they bring them to my motel for me to look at them.

I wanted to deal with private owners, rather than a dealership, because I was paying cash and I didn't want some slicker trying to sell me something I didn't want. Also, I figured the less paperwork, the better.

After looking at a couple of clunkers that weren't in real good condition, I found one I liked, a small two-door with about 160,000 miles on it. I looked at the engine closely. Early on, Uncle Bill had taught me the basics of auto mechanics, so I knew my way around a car engine.

I found this car's engine was in good shape, so after some dickering, I paid the man $3,000 in cash and he left me with my mode of escape. I put the address of the motel as my place of residence on the title, just in case.

That night, I took out a map of the United States and looked it over to see where I wanted to go. I didn't have a specific place in mind, but knew what sort of place I was looking for. I wanted to go someplace far, far away from Missouri, where no one would know me and where my degree might get a serious look.

I hit on a mid-sized city in the Carolinas, and as I did, I had another one of those flashes, where I saw myself settling down, getting a good job, making friends and finding a husband.

The next morning, bright and early, I packed my little car with my meager possessions, checked out of the motel and headed east. As I crossed the Mississippi River into Illinois, I could feel a heavy weight being lifted off my shoulders just from leaving Missouri.

It happened just as I had envisioned. I settled in Carolina, rented a small but nice one-bedroom apartment, and soon found a job working for a grocery store, using my years of experience at Bill's store to my advantage.

I worked there eight months, while I looked carefully for a job in my field, and finally I found one, with the company I'm still with. I left with a good recommendation and best wishes from my boss at the store, and some lifelong friends.

I got an apartment in a nice complex, dove into my work, which I quickly proved to be very good at, and tried to make friends at the office. I developed credit, traded my old faithful clunker for a newer model car and built a nice professional wardrobe.

I deliberately avoided anything, any relationship that I thought might result in a sexual encounter. I stayed away from bars, shunned any overtures from the men I encountered, and generally kept to myself.

Part of the task of building a life for myself was to learn to do everything on my own, to be independent of anyone outside of the work setting telling me what I had to do and where I had to go. Also, I wanted to prove to myself that I could indeed live a life that wasn't defined by sex, as it had been all of my life until I fled Missouri.

I didn't think I'd ever go three years without a sexual relationship of any sort, but that's the way it turned out, and the longer I went without it, the less I missed it.

Truth is, I rarely even masturbated, because when I did, the nightmare images of what I had done as Uncle Bill's whore would flash through my mind, and I would relive that trauma all over again. And I found it took me forever to come.

As 1993 moved into 1994, however, I began tentatively accepting some date requests, but none of them developed into much. But I was starting to have fun in the dating game, the way I never had before. I was playing the field, going to concerts, ball games, art galleries, doing all the things I had been denied by my uncle.

Slowly, over time, the trauma from my past faded somewhat. I realized I could make it on my own, that I didn't need people leading me, using me for their selfish reasons.

Still, I couldn't quite escape my past forever. I spent Christmas with a friend and her family, and it drove home the point that I had no family.

Then, in a flash, I thought about my mother, still sitting in prison in Oklahoma, as far as I knew. Suddenly, something told me I needed to go see her, that if I didn't go now, I'd never have another chance.

So I took a week's vacation that January and drove out to Oklahoma. I knew it was a risk, in a lot of ways. There was still the chance that she would still refuse to see me, the way she had for all those years.

Uncle Bill had always gone to see her a couple of times a year, and I would always ask if I could go. He'd always say that she didn't want to see me, that I had fucked up her life and to just leave her alone. For awhile I wrote her, but the letters were always returned unopened, so I quit. I could take a hint.

But I wasn't going to take no for an answer this time. I was going to stay there until she agreed to see me, and if she still refused to accept me when the time came for me to leave, then at least I'd know I tried.

And, too, there was always the chance that she'd contact Bill, assuming he'd survived the drugs I'd given him when I made my escape, and that he'd come down and try grab me to take me back to Missouri. That, I vowed, would not happen. I'd kill him first.

When I got to the town nearest to the prison, I called the warden and asked about Marie Trotter. The woman sounded taken aback, as if it had been awhile since anyone had asked about her.

But she was still there, so I told the warden what I wanted, that I was her daughter, that I wanted to see her and that I wasn't going to accept her refusal. She said that she'd do what she could for me, but that I'd best see her first. She also agreed to say nothing to my mother until I got there.

The next morning, I drove to the prison, subjected myself and my car to a thorough search, then drove to the warden's office. The warden was a business-like woman in her mid-40s who nevertheless greeted me warmly. She offered me a seat and that's when I learned that my mother had terminal lung cancer.

"Quite frankly, it's a miracle she's lived this long," the warden said. "She was diagnosed almost a year ago and told then that she had about six months to live. She's a tough old bird, I'll give her that."

To say I was stunned by my mother's appearance as they led her to the meeting room would be an understatement. I get my looks from her, and when she was young, she was gorgeous.

The woman I saw enter the meeting room at the prison infirmary was gaunt, gray-haired, stooped and her face was criss-crossed with lines. She was 42 and looked 65. She looked like she was in pain, and she failed to recognize me right away when they led her into the meeting room.

"Mom?" I said tentatively. At the sound of my voice, she looked at me quizzically for a second, and bless me, her face suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Sophie? Is that really you?" she said. "Praise Jesus! I knew you would come. I've told them all along that I wasn't going to die until my Sophie comes, that sooner or later you would come."

Then we both burst into tears and we hugged each other, letting all the years of bitterness flow away.

"I'm so sorry about what happened," she said when we had composed ourselves. "For such a long time, I blamed you. After I had been in here for awhile, though, I finally realized that it wasn't your fault, that you were a naive, vulnerable little girl. Then I felt so ashamed at myself for leaving you in his care and then doing something stupid like I did, not realizing that I was just abandoning you further. That's why I never wanted to see you, wanted to hear from you. I was too ashamed at what a mess I'd made of your life."

"It's OK, Mom, I understand," I said, and, in a way, I did. I guess she figured that she'd done enough damage, and that I'd be better off on my own.

"But one good thing that has come out of this," she said. "I have found Jesus, I've accepted him as my Lord and Savior and I've confessed my sins. I know where I'm going when I die, and it's not to hell like my bastard brother."

That's when I learned that Uncle Bill was dead. He'd been gunned down the previous summer in what appeared to be a robbery attempt. Mom was allowed to go to the funeral, accompanied by two guards, and she said you could count on your hands the number of people who were there for the graveside service, which was all they had for him.

"They told me what he did to you, what he made you do, and I think people started to shun him because of it," Mom said. "A lot of people up there think he killed you and buried your body somewhere. God, I wish I could've gotten my hands on his filthy neck. Why did you let him do it?"

"Mom, I don't know," I said, and I honestly didn't. "Maybe it was fear, insecurity. Really, I don't know why I let him lead me into that life. But I got away, and I've made something of myself. Sophie's dead, Mom. I'm Lyn now, and I am somebody. I have a nice job that pays me well, I'm dating, I have friends and I have my self-respect back."

"Good. Do you attend church?" she asked abruptly. I shook my head no. "Well, start going. God has protected you for a reason. He has plans for you. You were meant to do great things, or you would have fallen long ago. And, besides, you never know who you'll meet there. You might just meet the man of your dreams sitting across the aisle from you."

I visited Mom for several hours for each of the next three days that I was in Oklahoma. We talked a long time about our lives, and we shed a lot of tears. Finally, as I prepared to leave that last day, she pulled me to her and she looked at me firmly.

"You don't know how proud I am of you," she said. "You've become a fine young woman, one any man would be happy to have on his arm, to have by his side. You'll find him, and when you do, be honest with him. Don't try to hide your past, don't keep any secrets from him. If he can't accept you for what you are and what you have been, then he's not the man for you."

"I will," I said, as my tears flowed like rain. "Mom, I love you."

Then we hugged and I left, but not before turning around and getting one last look at the woman who had brought me into the world, who had made my life so miserable, but who had finally reconciled herself to me. We waved one last time, then I left and I cried all the way back to the motel.

Incredibly, she still lived another six months, and we wrote back and forth just about every week until right near the end. And when she passed away in July, I took funeral leave to see her buried. I flew out there, and I traveled with the man who would soon be my husband.

My mom was right. Sometimes you do meet eligible men in church. I started going to a Methodist church with a friend, who highly recommended it. She said there were a lot of singles our age, and that they had a lot going on.

The third time I went I sat with her, and across the aisle was this pleasant-looking man of about 30, sitting by himself. He was of average size, all the way around, but there was something about him that set my stomach fluttering. To this day I don't know what it was.

And he was giving me the eye, as well. He asked me out to lunch that afternoon, and before two hours had gone by, I knew that Ron Foster was the man I'd been looking for.

I really was almost love at first sight, and we were soon crazy in love. But as we started getting more and more intimate, as several months passed, we eventually reached the crossroads of our relationship.

I knew we were headed toward sex, and my emotions were in turmoil. Ron wasn't pushy by any means, but we'd go out on a date, we'd start making out and he'd make some move that clearly indicated he wanted me in a sexual way.

And I wanted him, but I was afraid to let myself go. He'd get to a certain point - his hands on my breasts or under my skirt or unbuttoning my jeans - and I'd freeze up. I thought he had this image of me as a shy, innocent, church-going girl, and I was terrified to let him get down to it, only to find out that I didn't fit his image.

I kept shying away and putting him off, until one Friday night that summer, when we had returned to his house after a date, he finally asked - no, demanded - to know what was wrong.

"Lyn, it's not that sex is that important," he said. "If you're a virgin and you're not ready for it, that's fine. But there is something about intimacy that bothers you, because every time we start getting close, you start acting scared, and not just from the idea of sex. What is it that bothers you so much about intimacy? I love you and I want you, but if you can't be intimate with me, then we're going to have a difficult time."

I had given a scornful snort when Ron had said he wondered if I was a virgin. I knew then that it was time to come clean, that he needed to know why I was acting the way I was, and what kind of person I really was.

I got up from the sofa in silence and walked to his little minibar. I reached in the cabinet under the sink and pulled out the bottle of bourbon he kept there for guests. I took out a shot glass, poured some whiskey in the glass and downed it, then poured another and downed that one.

Ron just stared at me in disbelief, because he'd never seen me take a drink, and, in fact, that was the first drink of alcohol I'd had in well over a year. But I needed it at that moment, to calm my nerves and loosen my tongue, so I could tell him the brutal truth about my past. I turned back to him and tears were in my eyes, and not just from the kick of the liquor.

"Ron, you say you love me and that you want me," I said as I walked to the picture window in his den and stared outside into the darkness of the summer night. "I love you and I want you, too. But you have to know the truth before we can go any further. You see, I am not what I appear to be. Trust me, I am not a virgin, and I haven't been one since... since I was 10 years-old and my stepfather... mo-mo-lested me."

I dissolved into wretching sobs at that point, and Ron came over, held me and I just cried uncontrollably on his shoulder. Just talking about it, even thinking about it, had brought all the horrible memories flooding back. He finally got me calmed down, then we sat down on the sofa and he gently told me to tell him about it.

So I told him all about my past, about my mom, about being molested, about the girls at the juvenile school, about my Uncle Bill and the work I had done for him. I emphasized that I'd been the best whore in three counties, and I had done just about everything except screw animals.

I wept off and on as I told him, because I was certain that he wouldn't want me after learning about what I'd been like, when he discovered that I wasn't the sweet, innocent girl he'd thought I was. And I had grown to love him intensely and I didn't want to lose him. I was back standing by the window when I was finished, thinking despondent thoughts.

"I'm so stupid for thinking I could ever have a good man like you," I said bitterly. "Nobody's going to want me after they find out about my past. Hell, I'm used goods. But you deserve to know the truth, so you can get on with your life and find somebody decent, not an old whore like me."

Suddenly, I felt his arms encircle me from behind and pull me close. He turned me around and looked me straight in the eye.

"You said Sophie's dead, right?" he said. "You left her back in Missouri, so leave her there. You're not Sophie any more. You're Lyn, and I love you all the more for having the guts to leave her behind, for having the courage to tell the truth, no matter the consequences, no matter how painful it had to be. I love Lyn and I love you. Period."

He pulled me close, turned my chin up and kissed me, and as he did, our passion caught fire. I couldn't believe that this decent man, this man from a good, upscale family, still wanted me, knowing what he knew about me. I felt his hands move up and down my body, and this time I didn't freeze up, didn't back away.

"Ron?" I said timidly, my lip quivering as we broke our kiss. "Will you love me? Please? I need you."

Ron's only answer was to slowly unbutton the blouse I was wearing, as he bent down and kissed me again. I could feel the passion in his embrace, and I could feel the hardness of his cock pressing against my stomach.

I had never wanted anything more than to make love with this sensitive, caring man who obviously loved me. My blouse fell to the floor, then my skirt, then my bra, and he filled his hands with my teacup-sized breasts, twirling the little pink tips between his fingers.

I quickly got his shirt off, and I ran my hands through the light fur that just did cover his chest. I bent down slightly and captured his nipples in my mouth, and licked and sucked them, one after the other. As I nibbled on his chest, I unbuckled his belt and got his slacks off. Ron's cock was making a tent in his jockeys, and I couldn't wait to see it.

"C'mon, let's go to bed," Ron panted, and I was ready.

When we got in his bedroom, he bent over to pull the covers down, so I reached from behind him, pulled his underwear off his cock and slid them off his legs. I hefted his already-leaking dick in my hands as I pressed myself to his back.

Ron's cock is a long way from being the biggest I've ever had, but it's big enough for me, a nice thick slab of meat in the 6-7 inch range. We fell on the bed, Ron slid my panties off, and I felt a thrill run through me as we held each other close, kissing and running our hands over each other's body.

God, it felt good to be lying next to a naked man again, and I could feel a tingling between my legs that told me just how good it felt. Then I took a sharp intake of breath as his fingers found my sex. He lightly parted my lips and rolled my clit around with his fingers.

At the same time, I encircled his cock with my hand and stroked up and down his shaft softly. It had been three long years since I'd held a man's cock in my hands, longer than that since I'd held one in a situation like this, in bed with just one man.

Even as that thought crossed my mind, however, I seemed to tense up and I felt my arousal start to ebb. I realized then that this wasn't going to be as easy as I'd hoped. Ron immediately sensed the change in my demeanor, because he softly reassured me.

"Just relax, love," he said softly. "We can take as much time as you need. Just lie back and let all the bad thoughts out. I love you, and I want you so much, but I'm not going to do anything if you're not comfortable."

"Oh, Ron, please, please love me," I panted. At that point, I just wanted him in me and I wanted him to hold me close. "Please, fuck me. I don't care about anything, but I need you. Now."

Bless his heart, he'd been so patient with me, biding his time, waiting for me to be ready for this, and it wasn't fair to him to make him wait any more. I rolled onto my back, spread my legs and as I did, he rolled on top of me, lifted himself up on his knees and slid his cock into my dripping cunt.

"Yessssssssssssssooooogoood," I exclaimed as I felt him push into my wet, waiting depths.

We both groaned heavily in exquisite pleasure as we came together for the first time. This was what I'd been searching for all of my life, a man who would love me. Nothing more, nothing less. It was what had led me into all of the trouble I'd gotten into, going as far back as Schultzie.

I just wanted to be loved. Now I had that, and I actually sighed in contentment as Ron quickly got up to speed in my pussy. We worked as one from the very beginning, like we'd been together forever. We just instinctively knew what motions to use, what words to say.