CHAPTER TWO
For some reason my thoughts kept swirling back to Mr. Goldstein while I climbed the stairs. God, how I hated that man! He'd been pudgy – not really fat, just smooth and pudgy and sweaty – and he'd seemed to me to have as many hands as an octopus. I'd been scared to death of him the first time I'd had to talk to him. Mother and Daddy hadn't been dead longer than a month and I'd already realized the insurance wasn't going to stretch far enough at Ma Conner's. I mean, there were two of us no matter how you looked at it, and that meant it cost for two instead of one. She'd gone to bat for us and kept them from splitting us up, but she did have a living to make, herself. And the people who paid her for board and room furnished that living.
The trouble was, I actually lacked about five months of being old enough to be my own boss. Technically, Mr. Goldstein should have gotten a court okay to put me to work. And that would have meant somebody from Welfare snooping around his place all the time and him filling out extra forms and all sorts of other trouble. But he did understand how desperate I was. So he hired me without going through the formalities. They'd wink at it so long as I kept my nose clean, he assured me. It wouldn't be fair to pay me what the other usherettes got, either, he pointed out, since they were all legal and didn't involve him in any risk. And I could see that and accepted what he was willing to pay; at least I could come out just about even at the end of every month.
Only keeping my nose clean really had meant doing whatever Mr. Goldstein wanted me to. I hadn't been working more than a week before one of the patrons made a big fuss about losing his wallet. I looked for it – he was sitting right on the aisle where I was working – and never did find it. Mr. Goldstein was worried about that. He made me keep looking. And when everybody else had finished and gone home, I was still looking. And Mr. Goldstein was watching me look.
So I was crawling along between two rows of seats and my miniskirt was hiking up to my ass – he insisted on real short skirts for the good of the business – and my head ached until I was practically blind. And all of a sudden I felt his hand on my back, sort of between my shoulder blades, and his other hand grabbed my pussy. God! What could I do? I could yell some and struggle some more, but I didn't have room to break away. And before I could get out more than the first couple of yells he had his hand inside my panties and one finger lying in my slit. He was as fast as a cat, too! I didn't even know how he'd done it, but he got astride me, his knees holding my waist and wedged between the seats and his rump over my shoulders! And that gave him two hands to use where he wanted to.
I'd grown up in a little town about twenty miles upriver from Emporia. I knew farms and farm animals and farm kids. There wasn't anything about sex I hadn't heard and sniggered about and gotten shivers over. Maybe I'd even hidden behind a woodpile once in awhile. But Mother and Daddy had done what they could to teach me what was "right" and what was "wrong". I could remember how Daddy's belt had stung those times when he'd found out I'd slipped a little.
So I was full of horror and panic at what Mr. Goldstein was doing. But that finger in my slit felt good! Oh, God, so terribly good! And I couldn't get away from it! He jerked my panties off my legs and grubbed at my pussy lips with those pudgy hands of his. He pried them apart and rubbed them between his fingers and worked one fingertip around the quivering, raw little rim of my cunt-mouth. And all I could do was make my hips go! I knew there was cunny-juice there; I could feel its heat as it oozed out and the cold as it began to dry. He spread it all over me – on my pussy lips and into the crack between my "bum-apples", as one of the boys used to call them, and right on my scared, puckered little asshole!
I can't remember everything he did that night. It all gets foggy in my mind. But I do remember the way he wrapped his arms around me, just forward of my hips, and lifted my bottom into the air. My feet were waving and my back felt like it would break, and everything was wide open for him! I remember how hot and wet his mouth felt when he shoved his face into my ass crack. I remember the weird, fiery sensation when he kissed – yes, actually kissed – my asshole. But the most fantastic recollection of all is what it felt like when he started wedging the tip of his tongue into that puckered, winking little hole. Oh, Jesus! What an unbelievable sensation! Sweet and awful… delicious and agonizing… so exciting it made tears come to my eyes and so repulsive it made me want to throw up!
I didn't throw up. Not then or any time after. But I could have killed myself for some of the things I did because he made me do them. Especially when I found out the projectionist was staying at the theater every time Mr. Goldstein and I did. And that he was taking movies until they had hundreds of feet of me doing all those things. It was too late to quit, then. And Mr. Goldstein started letting other men use me. And boys!
Well, that was the one part I liked right from the start. Those sweet, cherubic, eager little boys with their peewee-cockers that were just barely ready to turn into hard-ons and the way their little foreskins peeled back and left them all red underneath and the way they…
God! Anyway, Mr. Goldstein got another real young girl in there after I'd worked three and a half years for him. And he let me quit and take the cashier's job at the Emporia Bowl. And I began to get over that awful period.
I guess I thought mostly about those little boys while I climbed the stairs and went back to Mark's and my apartment. I know I was thinking about them when I went inside. And I went right through my bedroom to the sun porch Ma had enclosed and let us have for a sitting room of our own. It was dark in there and I dropped onto the beat-up old rattan lounge and stared out the low windows at the cottonwoods and the street lights and wondered if any of those little boys recognized me now when they came bowling.
I was a little ashamed of myself; the crotch of my panties was wet from the goo my thoughts had triggered. My hands shook a little, too, but that was mostly from the fury and frustration I'd felt in the dining room.
There was a faint scuffling sound and Mark plunked down on the edge of the lounge. He leaned over me and sort of cuddled me without saying anything, as if he were twenty-two and I were fourteen. I let myself float in the warmth and security of his boyish embrace for awhile and then chuckled quietly.
"It's going to be okay, Markie. You know that Latin phrase you keep saying."
"Means 'Don't let the bastards get you down'?" he asked.
"That's the one. They can't get us down." To my horror, my voice cracked and I started to cry. It's that bastard, Eric! I thought. He's the one's getting me down!
Mark just held me tighter. I felt him squashing my boobies and tried to smother the abrupt wave of cock-hunger that washed over me. I cried harder and he squeezed harder and I had to squirm. I mean, my hips were squirming. I was sort of curling up around him and panting through the sobs and my pussy was burning up!
I don't know how he did it, but somehow his hand moved and brushed my bottom. It was like touching a match to a rocket! I grabbed him and hung on. My tits rubbed on him and my knees jerked up to jam my thighs against his buttocks and I was all over him! And his damn hand was all over! He didn't rub my thigh with it more than a couple of strokes, probably, but while I was still twisting around, he got it onto one of my boobs. He could have done anything, then. He was all those little boys rolled into one, and I was going to teach my own brother how to get the most pleasure out of fucking!
He didn't fight when I scrambled around so he was lying down and I was over him. He didn't object when I propped myself up so my boobs were right above his face, either. He simply unbuttoned my blouse and pushed my bra up off the swaying mounds and buried his face between them. But he did jerk pretty hard when I grabbed his hard-on through his trouser-front. That really seemed to shake him!