Temperance
by Mecca
The whole room shook as Mr. Rutherford banged on the door of Dorothy’s tenement. “I know you’re in there, Missus Baley!” he called. A beat passed and he yelled “If I am not made whole by tomorrow, I’ll return with the cops!” Then, only footsteps, decreasing in volume.
Dorothy bit her lip and grimaced. On the kitchen table lay further unpaid bills, taunting her. Dorothy had no more options left. She had to get more money to avoid eviction. She ran to the door and opened it, the door chain limiting the width of her speaking space. Through the cracked opening she called to him.
“I’ll have posted the rent by end of day,” yelled Dorothy. Then she closed the door. Silence. Then more footsteps as Mr. Rutherford continued down the stairs.
George, Jr. and Bobby were playing with George’s toy sailboat by the window. It was the only window in her home; yet its existence was an extravagance in a squalid 1-room tenement such as hers.
“George, Bobby, won’t you play outside?” she told the boys. “Get some fresh air! Out front, where I can see you.” The young cherubs looked up at their mother, then obediently escaped to the sidewalk down below. Dorothy peered through the window until she saw her sons reappear. She was all they had in the world, after their father’s accident at the factory. Though without George, Sr.’s income, Dorothy had found it difficult pay rent while also keeping the boys fed. She scrimped and saved, picking up odd jobs here and there, but it hadn’t been enough. She would have to resort to extreme measures.
With the spiritlessness of an automaton, Dorothy reapplied lipstick and powdered her cheeks. Once her husband, George, Sr., had died, an invisible timer had appeared in her head. That timer counted down the days until she would disappoint both her late parents and her faith to commit the worst of the sins in order to ensure the survival of her family. That timer had reached zero today. Perhaps it was not the worst of all sins; she wasn’t going to murder anyone. But she was going to betray her virtue for financial gain. She would become a whore.
Perhaps worst of all was that her inevitable fall was predicted by none other than Miss Marie Sauveur, the madam of the local brothel. After George, Sr.’s funeral, Marie had indirectly extended an offer of employment.
“It’s hard for an honest woman to make a buck in this city,” Marie had said. “But for those willing to bend... you’d be surprised at how handsome a wage could be earned. Especially for a pretty young redhead like you.”
Dorothy had taken slight offense. Her pride (another sin) had prevented her from hearing Marie’s offer. Surely Dorothy would find another way to make ends meet, or so she’d thought.
Now, with no other place to turn, Dorothy was ready to sell her body and soul to make the rent. Alas, it was too late for Marie’s offer. Her brothel, La Maison du Chat, had shuttered its doors after 50 years of business. Not because of any lack of patronage or a dearth of finances, but because of the new law.
The writing was on the wall after the White-Slave Traffic Act of 1910 (or the “Mann Act” as some had called it) passed. That law merely prevented crossing state lines to engage in prostitution. Soon after came the Red Light Abatement Act, which criminalized all houses of ill repute in her state. After that, Dorothy could not work at a brothel to earn extra cash. But instead of ending prostitution wholesale or providing impoverished women with other opportunities, it simply pushed the industry underground. Instead of working from a brothel, Dorothy needed to provide the location, provide the security, handle the financial transaction, and obtain the customer all by herself.
What really drove her mad was that her fellow women had done this to her. The Woman’s Christian Temperance Union had a large part in pushing for this anti-prostitute, anti-woman legislation. Other groups played their parts, but they were the largest, loudest ones. (That group also pushed for alcohol prohibition and women’s suffrage, but so far those goals remained mere fantasy). Here in 1914, their only success was in making prostitution dangerous and illegal. Dorothy hated these women, especially Ella White.
Ella, the president of the local chapter of the WCTU, was a loud moralistic hypocrite who had given insult to Dorothy personally on multiple occasions, usually based on her Catholic faith and Irish heritage. She had, for example, muttered that the Irish were the “dogs of Europe” when George, Jr. was misbehaving at the grocery store. How Dorothy hated that bitch.
But regardless of reason, the fact was that there was no local brothel for Dorothy to apply for temporary employment. And while she was a skilled seamstress and cook, these skills had failed to provide significant compensation in recent months. That is how she found herself standing downstairs, in front of apartment #34, the home of Roy McBride. Dorothy heaved a sad sigh and then knocked heavily on the door. After a moment, Roy opened the door.
A smile crept across the older man’s face as he saw it was Dorothy. He ran his hand through his receding hair and said, “Mrs. Baley? How are you?”
“May I come in?” asked Dorothy sharply, smiling genially. Roy opened the door and let Dorothy enter.
“To what do I owe this pleasure? Need someone to watch the kids again? I’ll do it for a gander up that dress. Heh.” That was Roy McBride. Always a lecher. Even when her husband was alive, Roy would objectify her crudely, but quietly. Now that she was alone, he would often verbalize his lusty thoughts.
“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” started Dorothy. “You’ve always been kind to me,” she lied, “and keen on observing my graces. And recently I’ve found myself in a particular predicament. One that I believe you and you alone may be able to help me extricate.
“You see, my bind is financial in nature...” Roy frowned. “And rather than ask you for a loan, much less a charitable donation, all that I would ask is that I might work for you for a short time and bill you for services rendered.”
Roy narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. “I’d like to help you, Mrs. Baley, but I already have a housekeeper...”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” continued Dorothy. “I know that, as a widower, you must have certain needs and desires that your housekeeper, proficient as she may be, cannot fill.
“I’ve seen the way your eye wanders, Mr. McBride. Even the most stoic of gentlemen must attend to his necessities every once in a while. As a widow myself, I think I could help you attain satisfaction, and all that I would ask is fair recompense, paid beforehand.” Dorothy stood quietly looking at Roy, looking away, then looking back into his eyes.
Roy raised his eyebrows. “I may be in the market for such services,” began Roy. “In fact, I’ve sought this particular servicer, heh, for quite some time... But as one who has perhaps had such business dealings before, I’d ask that you speak plainly so that I may ascertain whether the deal makes sense.” His eyes hungrily scanned Dorothy in her plain dress, one that hugged tightly at her bosom.
Here it was. No going back now. Dorothy cleared her throat.
“You may lie with me for $20. My apartment is empty right now, if you so desire. Afterwards, you can return home and we never speak of it again. Deal?”
Roy McBride smiled widely and tapped his fingers on his trousers anxiously. She could feel him, drinking her in. He was probably growing erect that very moment. That thought disgusted her, but then she reasoned that such a lusty reaction was necessary if she was to complete the transaction. “Ten dollars,” he bargained.
“Twenty, and not a penny less,” demanded Dorothy.
“I could purchase four women at a brothel for twenty,” argued Roy, growing cross. “Be reasonable.”
“And yet, there are no brothels to be had, not anymore. Every bawdy house in the city has been shut down. And here you have a good Christian woman before you. A virgin, save for one man. One that you, if I may be so bold, have been eyeing for years.” It was a bit bold to accuse him of wanting to be a party to adultery back when she was still married, but it was the blunt truth. She knew he had wanted to fuck her years ago. She figured it couldn’t hurt to state this fact, or to reveal that she’d known it.
Roy frowned a bit, then countered, “Fifteen dollars and that’s as high as I’m going.”
“I am insisting on twenty. This is the number. A woman has her needs as well, and this is what I require.”
Roy furrowed his brows and chewed his lip. She could see the gears turning in his head as he calculated her worth. She was not offended. This was just the way men were. Men were willing to pay money to fuck women, especially women who weren’t whores. Well, who weren’t whores beforehand. She’d be a whore soon. The difficult part was determining how much she could charge him, and once she had figured that out, there was no way to increase the dignity she had already lost. She would become a whore, but only once, and only to one man… if he accepted the deal.
“Okay,” he relented.
“Very well, I’ll be upstairs,” said Dorothy. “Don’t tarry.” She left, closing his front door behind her.
In her apartment, Dorothy waited anxiously. She had already tidied herself up, so there was nothing to do while she waited for Roy. Random thoughts popped into her brain. What if he got violent with her? What if the boys ended their play earlier than usual? What if he talked to the neighbors? Was the money worth the risk to her reputation?
But before she had time to address her maddening thoughts, Roy arrived at her door. Dorothy was relieved. Her thoughts were mere anxiety, possibly female hysteria. She knew what she had to do, and it was better to get it over with.
Dorothy invited Roy in. He smelled of cheap cologne and dry bourbon. Apparently, he had been nervous as well. Why, she couldn’t imagine. She was taking all the risks here.
“Five, ten, fifteen, twenty,” he called as he placed four $5 bills into her hand. Dorothy stuffed the money into her wallet and went into the bedroom to tuck her wallet away. She didn’t want him to see where she stashed the money, and he didn’t follow her into the bedroom.
Back in the foyer—which was one step away from the living room—, Dorothy stood before Roy and smiled timidly.
“So do you want to retire to the bed, the couch, or...”
“Go to the kitchen table,” said Roy with a toothy smile.
The thin redhead smiled, nodded and cleared the kitchen table. It wasn’t the first time she had used it for this purpose. Her husband had been a sexy beast. Backed against the table, she looked into Roy’s eyes, trying to summon up lust for this mediocre man.
“Why don’t you make yourself-” she started.
“Turn around,” said Roy flatly. There was no time for niceties. He wanted a raw hard fuck on the table. This was a blessing. She wouldn’t have to warm him up by, for example, taking him in her mouth first. That would’ve been horrible.
Thank God that Roy always valued efficiency, thought Dorothy. She was prepared to receive his prick with all the romance and emotion of a doctor’s visit.
Dorothy bent over the kitchen table and then lifted the skirt of dress, and that of her camisole underneath. She hadn’t been preparing to go anywhere, so she wasn’t wearing closed knickers. Her shapely fanny was exposed to the eyes.
Dorothy tried not to cry as she listened to Roy prepare his prick for fornication. It was longest ten seconds in her life, presenting her hairy puss like that in her kitchen and just… waiting. Then finally she felt his cockhead press against her pussy.
“Oh!” she exclaimed.
Her initial thought was how dry she felt. Dorothy didn’t understand why. She was always wet when fucking George, Sr. She soon came to the realization that her body was reacting to the person, not just the situation. She licked her fingers, rubbed her cunny a little, and pictured her late husband as Roy filled her up with hard meat.
His large hands tightened around her haunches and soon they were fucking. Dorothy lay there, afraid, embarrassed, but also grateful that she now had money. They could eat tonight, and she could pay the rent for a couple of months. There was time now. She breathed a sigh of relief and backed her ass up onto Roy’s thighs. Roy grunted and she felt his cock slam harder into her cunt. He was grunting and moaning with rhythm. She supposed he wouldn’t be long now.
“Don’t cum inside me,” she told him.
But several minutes passed and he had reached no conclusion. It was not a huge concern. There were many grey hairs on Roy’s beard and many hairs missing from his head, so Dorothy knew that he lacked the pep and enthusiasm of a younger man. But she was surprised that his prick seemed a little softer than when he started. She’d heard of such things before, but how would she react if he didn’t cum? Or took too long? She knew that whores rented by the hour, and she supposed she’d have to keep an eye on the clock. Damn, at what time had the congress started?
“C’mon, bitch, ride me back,” Roy demanded.
Dorothy realized she hadn’t been moving for the last few minutes, just letting him fuck away. Mr. Baley hadn’t required such activity to be brought to orgasm, so she assumed dancing on cock wasn’t necessary. But to speed things along, she humped Roy back a bit. It seemed to work for a few minutes before his problems began again.
“This ain’t how it’s supposed to go,” said Roy. And while Dorothy wondered what he meant by that, she soon felt a finger, slick with saliva, infiltrate her rectum.
Dorothy yelped and looked back at him in shock. Roy withdrew his finger, but then pushed his half-erect cock against her sensitive rosebud.
"No!” she yelled. She didn't think there was any way his prick would fit up her ass. But to her dismay, she felt her anus suddenly open to receive him. Impossibly, he was soon inside her ass and pushing forward. “Ow ow ow! Stop!”
Roy pinned her body down with one hand, preventing her escape. He was surprisingly strong for his age! The most she could do is push her hands against him in hopes that he would realize how much he was hurting her. Yet, he quite literally pressed on. His prick felt infinitely long. She was certain that if he pushed himself any further, his prick would be touching the roof of her mouth.
“Now this is worthy twenty dollars,” said Roy. Then he began fucking her butt.
Dorothy couldn’t understand why any whore would offer to take a cock back there, or even why any man would want it. Regular sex was pleasurable and nice. This was just violent and mean. And she surely looked a mess. She was crying and screaming, so that couldn’t have been a turn-on.
“Stoppp!” sobbed Dorothy, her face awash with tears. It was dawning on her that Roy wasn’t going to stop buggering her and that he was enjoying this somehow. Her pleasure didn’t seem to enter into the equation. He was just pleasuring himself. Like he was masturbating, but with her body.
“Quit your cryin’,” grunted Roy.
If Roy had trouble staying hard initially, his performance problems now seemed cured. She could feel every vein, every ridge in his thick penis as it perforated her sore ass-hole. What a wicked man.
Yet, even as her raped her up the ass, she couldn’t be that cross at him. Boys will be boys, and men required sex. They just needed it sometimes. George, Sr. had wanted to fuck almost every night, yet Dorothy hadn’t always been in the mood. He’d get irritated and frustrated until she fucked him or at least sucked his prick. And her husband had been a teetotaler, so she couldn’t blame the booze for men's appetites. That was just how men were. They needed sex all the time. And since she had let Roy fuck her twat, she couldn’t be upset that he decided to fuck the hole above her twat, too, she supposed. He didn’t know any better. She had acquiesced to sex, and technically she hadn’t even told him to stay out of her ass. It was her own fault that she wanted to revoke consent after it was too late to do so.
“You wanted to upsell me, girl? You had better make it worth it!” resumed Roy.
No, Dorothy’s problem was with the ones who put her in this position. The evil people who created the conditions for her to have to sell her ass out of her own home. Dorothy placed the blame for this squarely on Ella White and the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. That arrogant cunt had made her life hard even before the legislation had passed. Judging her family, her clothes, her faith, and her lifestyle without any clue how hard she was working to keep everything together. And judging the whores at the local brothel. Those girls were simply working to make ends meet. Admittedly, they weren’t angels, but neither were they “Hell-bound temptresses” that needed to be “cast out of the city.” And now that those poor women were gone, no one was there was there to catch Dorothy as she hit rock bottom. Instead of a posh brothel with security and rules, she was here, alone in the kitchen with Roy.
“Hoo! This was a long time coming, girl.”
Fuck Ella, thought Dorothy. It should be that prig with a prick up her fat bottom, not me. The selfish lust of one man was forgivable, but the malevolent meddling of moralistic hypocrite had ruined her life. As a fellow Christian, shouldn’t Ella have been extending a helping hand to the lowly and destitute? Surely that would have been better than persecuting them. Did she gain pleasure from hurting people, not unlike Roy?
Roy eventually came, flooding her insides with his warm emissions as he quaked and cooed betwixt the cheeks of her ass. He took a step back to re-dress.
“I reckoned I couldn’t get your ass pregnant,” he said, explaining why he didn’t pull out. Sniffling, Dorothy stood and let her skirts fall over her beaten body. She looked at Roy, whose face was exhibiting something almost akin to shame. She knew it wasn’t his fault, not really, but she still felt upset with him losing control. She stared at him through bloodshot eyes. The two looked at each other while his seed leaked out of her ass-hole and down the supple curves of her white bottom.
“Well, I best be going. Let me know if you need another twenty dollars,” said Roy. “And temper your volume next time. Mr. Rutherford won’t look too kindly on either of us if he catches on.” After that confusing monologue, Roy took his leave.
Dorothy wiped her tears and headed to the bathroom. She would need to clean herself up before paying the landlord his dues.