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Old 03-01-2016, 05:04 PM   #341
90lbsofdynamite
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Default An Introduction to all things Millie

Let me begin by saying, while Millie is now my legal name it is not the name my mother and father gave me. They named me Lakeisha and I suppose it was some African inspired name. I can still hear my fathers voice calling me, “Lakeisha, come here girl.” Perhaps that is one reason I hate the name so much. The thought of him grunting my name out while he jabbed his cock in me over and over, all the while telling me to be his, “good girl – Lakeisha.”

I was born on September 10, 1989 and was raped by father the first time on my 12 birthday. The following morning, a Monday, my mother tells me my father is just showing his love to me. She further explains that it is his right and I have a duty to keep my mouth shut about this. She let me stay home from school that day – to heal up a bit – so while she explains all this to me, I watch the news on TV. Why the news – it is all that is on. No cartoons, no talk shows, no soap operas, just the news. The buildings fall. The plains crash. My life tumbles down around my head and I feel – unimportant, insignificant, unworthy, and very much unloved.

There is no love in the act my father preformed on me – this is not normal family behavior – it is cruel, selfish, and destructive. No, I do not like incest stories – especially the lovey dovey, bullshit ones where everyone is happy and all is right with the world.

My fascination with horror, violence, and murder began in the aftermath of that terrible birthday gift from my father. Eight months to day after the rape I ran away from home – 12 years old and ruined by my father turning to prostitution was not a difficult thing. I remember May 10th, 2002 hitch hiking from Huston Texas heading to nowhere. I remember an old fat trucker picking me up. He had big muscled up arms, a big chest and this enormous beer belly. In no time he calculated I was a child, running away from a terrible situation and desperate to put miles between me and whatever I was running away from, he looked me up and down almost licking his lips.

When I crawled in the cab he had the friendliest smile I had ever seen. I thought to myself, “Great a nice person.” In less than mile on the highway he told me to move next to him. I asked why his friendly face changed in twinkling, “Because I told you to, fucking nigger child, get your ass over here.” That giant friendly face twisted into the most hateful grimace, as soon as slid next to him he unzipped his pants and fished out his cock. His big powerful hand clutched my neck forcing my face down to his prick.

“You got pay for your ride,” he said. He made frequent long stops off the highway and did what he wanted to do to me. I had traded one hell for another. Late the next day we made Oklahoma City and he parked in a big truck stop. He fucked me several times then asked if I had any money.

“No,” I said as he shoved a wad of bills in my hand.

“Good luck to you, not get the fuck out. This street is 28th, walk down that way until you get to a street called Robinson. You can make your living on that street,” he said. His voice was odd, not angry, not mean almost sorrowful.

“What will I do?” I asked him confused that he was throwing me out.

“You’ll do your whoreing there. Now get out I got to get home to my wife,” he sat there with this look on his face, I can’t describe it to you. I don’t know what he was feeling but I think he was conflicted. “You be careful,” he said, as I climbed down to the street. “Some men ain’t kind and gentle like me.”

I thought he was making some kind of joke, but he was telling me the truth. I looked at the bills in my hand – twenty-five dollars. I had 3 bras’, two pair of panties, 4 tops and one pair of jeans to my name and twenty-five dollars. I was four feet and six inches tall and weighed less than 80 pounds, twelve-years old, alone and very afraid. I doubt I looked even twelve years old, I had no idea what was to become of me and kept telling myself, “Well, this is better than what I had at home.”
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Old 03-04-2016, 03:37 PM   #342
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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.
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Old 03-05-2016, 04:41 PM   #343
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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.
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Old 06-29-2016, 02:13 AM   #344
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Reading this thread made me sad, and even a little guilty about my own writing. I have never suffered anything like this, I'm just one of those who is genuinely disturbed by the real thing but likes the fantasy.
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Old 07-01-2016, 03:22 PM   #345
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Don't be sad I moved on and my writing helps me cope with what happened.
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Old 02-02-2017, 02:39 PM   #346
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I meet a person that would eventually change my life. It was late winter, and a cold front moved through the city. The action around Robinson Ave was slow, so I walked north into downtown and then east with the goal of working on Tenth Street between May and Pen avenues. I took a short cut across a field and then down an alley on the west end of downtown. Behind a business, a man loaded white sacks in the back of black Ford SUV. The sacks had the words Premium Popcorn printed in yellow with black outlines.
He was late 40’s, thin with a touch of gray in his hair. A short man he saw me and gave me a grin. I figured he liked what he saw, I walked up and said, “You looking for date Mr.? I’ll blow you for ten bucks.”
He looked at me and frowned saying, “You should be at school, girl, not out here acting dirty.”
“I don’t go to school,” I said.
“You should, now go home and behave yourself,” he said, then he added, “no need to grow up fast.
“I ain’t got a home, don’t got no parents, I’m just trying to get by,” I insisted. He dug out his wallet pulled out $200 dollars and handed it to me.
“Get a room at the motel, warm up, have a good meal and go to shelter tomorrow. Get help.” Well, I took the money and ran away from him. I didn’t see him again until 2005 when again I tried to hustle him, he remembered me. Giving me a scowl this time he shook his head.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Millie,” I told him. A tear ran down his cheek, I couldn’t understand this.
“How old are you?”
“23,” I snapped at him.
“How old?”
“What’s it to you,” I asked him.
“How old are you?” he asked again, insisting I be honest.
“Really, what day?” he asked.
“The ten,” I told him. A strange, sad smile crossed his face.
“That’s my birthday as well. How about I buy you a meal, get you a room and give you some money for an early birthday present?” he said.
“How much,” I asked, feeling like he wanted to occupy my time and fuck a lot. If it wasn't much money, it wouldn’t be worth it, you know if I would make more walking.
“Five hundred,” he told me.
“Well that ain’t enough for an all-night girlfriend experience,” I explained to him.
“I’m not going to be with you, but I don’t want you working the street tonight. Five hundred is all I can afford to give you right now.”
“You don’t want to fuck me?”
“Sure, if I was thirty years younger and not married. But not for money,” he told me as he again fished out his wallet. There’s a nice holiday inn near here, how about it. “How about it?” He held the money up toward me.
“I don’t want the room…but…if it is okay can I have the money?” He handed me the small wad of fifties and hundred dollar bills.
“Get help Millie, get off the streets before you can’t.”
I saw Ron many more times before I meet Jo and before the two of them got me off the streets. Other than my sisters on the street, he was the first person cared about me. The first person in my life to tell me to get off the streets, to change who I was. Those first two times I meet him planted seeds in my mind that I could be something more than a whore.

Last edited by Crotch_Ripper; 02-02-2017 at 03:22 PM. Reason: Removed underage reference.
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Old 02-02-2017, 03:22 PM   #347
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Anything under the age of 18 cannot be posted here. The phrase "When I was younger" is fine.
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Old 02-02-2017, 05:00 PM   #348
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I guess I was misinformed then, I was told in the Real Rape Thread we could post our real life experiences and that in this thread the age wasn't a problem.
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Old 02-03-2017, 08:05 AM   #349
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You may indeed tell your real life story. However we still have to abide by age rules. Age references under 18 can cause problems for this board.

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Originally Posted by 90lbsofdynamite View Post
I guess I was misinformed then, I was told in the Real Rape Thread we could post our real life experiences and that in this thread the age wasn't a problem.
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