Ordeal by Linda Lovelace Read Free Book Online Page B

on that, cunt.”
    I didn’t. And, in truth, I began to forget what normal people with normal feelings were like. One trick came in every week and asked for his “eleven-year-old friend.” And every week he would hand me a script that he had written and I would have to say the lines to him.
    Lines like: “Please don’t hurt me, sir, I’m only eleven years old.” Lines like: “Oooh, you’re so big and strong—please, sir, don’t take away my cherry.” Lines like—well, you get the idea.
    And then there was Greg. Greg was thirty-eight years old, a successful architect, and he hired two of us. Greg had a slightly different script. One of the girls—usually Melody—waited outside in the living room while I went into the bed with Greg. Melody would then come to the door and I would have to say, “Ooooh, golly, Greg—your mommy’s here.” And Melody would come storming over to the bed and strip the sheet away from us and say, “Gregory! What are you doing with this cheap girl? I think I’m going to have to spank you!” The following week Melody and I might switch roles with my playing the mother and her playing the cheap girl.
    I guess this is where I got my early dramatic training. However, I didn’t always understand the other characters’ motivations. One of the least demanding customers owned a huge resort hotel and paid $150.00 a week. Every week Chuck would take me to a penthouse suite in the man’s hotel and wait for me outside the door. All I had to do was take off my clothes and take a bubble bath in one of those circular sunken tubs. The trick sat and watched me soap myself for a full hour and that was the extent of our involvement.
    There was another customer who shared Chuck’s sickness; he got off on pain. He paid $75.00 for the pleasure of making anal love to me while hitting me. I had no idea how I was supposed to react to this sort of thing. I didn’t yet know I was supposed to scream in pain one minute and scream with joy the next; beg for mercy and beg for more at the same time. Before he left, the trick complained to Chuck about my amateurishness.
    “Lemme make it right for you,” Chuck said. “Come back tomorrow and you can have her for nothing.”
    “Thanks, but no thanks,” the trick said. “When you get someone new in, give me a call.”
    Customer complaints led to more severe beatings than usual. Also to a brand new line of verbal abuse: “You useless cunt, I can’t even give you away for free!”
    My inexperience did cost us several customers, a fact that didn’t disturb me in the least. Much of the time I couldn’t begin to imagine what possible pleasure they would get out of the strange things they wanted me to do. One trick who lived alone on a houseboat asked me to sit on his face and urinate in his mouth. I couldn’t do that. I tried but just couldn’t do it. The trick got angrier and angrier, and, finally, he screamed at me to go into the bathroom and put it in a glass. I returned with a glassful of urine and he drank it down. Then he told me to get off his boat and never come back. I was happy to oblige.
    Since Chuck would never beat me up when we were away from his house, I was always pleased when the trick wanted to meet his “date” at a motel or an apartment. Just knowing that Chuck wasn’t staring at me through his little peephole helped some. And there was always the possibility of escape, the thought that he might slip up and leave me unguarded for a few minutes. Still and all, the trips from home were never what you might call pleasure trips. For one thing, I never knew what might be waiting for me on the other side of a door.
    Early in August, Chuck drove me to a private home in South Miami. The door was answered by a fat man with oiled black hair, maybe fifty-five years old. The fat man—his name was Leonard Campagno, also known as Lenny Camp—lived in incredible squalor. His living room was filled with boxes and crates. Newspapers were a carpet