Robert Taylor

Whipped bitch

CHAPTER ONE

Janey screamed.

The man had seized the collar tabs of her shirt and yanked, intending to tear it open. But the neck was buttoned tightly and the tabs were slippery, soaking wet like all her clothing. The collar slipped from his grasp.

She cowered into the corner of the cab of the pickup truck, clawing for the doorhandle.

"I'm going to have a look at those big tits of yours," he snarled.

"Mister, wait!" she cried. "Don't tear my shirt, it's all I got!"

He paused, rubbing a hand across his lips. He was big, raw-boned, had tangled red hair and a hooked nose.

Rain crashed on the cab roof, flooded down the windshield. The headlights showed palm trees thrashing about, bent almost double by the violence of the storm. The rain was cold, had torn through Janey's clothes until she had wept with the pain of the icy tremors that had seemed to freeze her bones. And yet she pawed at the door, trying to find the handle to escape this brutal rapist.

He laughed. "Shit, girl. There's no doorhandle on that side."

She didn't believe him. Her hand raced frantically over the greasy door.

"I took em off," he grinned. He plucked a cigarette from a pack on the dashboard and lit it. He wore a thick plaid jacket, zipped up only halfway. He said, "You don't want to go out into that storm. You're three miles from the nearest house and there's just no cars out in this weather. So you just warm your fingers so you can unbutton that shirt and show me your tits."