Chapter 14

Those Friday sessions lasted through the school year and would have continued through the brief summer session, except that Jackson was dragooned into a beach holiday by an overbearing sister and became the built-in babysitter for four girls.

Myra was relieved when he went. Not that she really minded getting fucked. That was now the major part of her life. But she did resent not being paid, not adding to the "Escape Hatch" fund. And it embarrassed her to listen to Jackson's sanctimonious mumblings about violating his sacred trust, even as he undid his pants, and his self-righteous whimperings as he did them up afterwards.

Sex, started for her by the unfeeling lout, Lem, and obscene Uncle Ben and carried on by the soda-shop crowd, had become a way of life. But, at least with most of her customers, a frankly hedonistic, even joyous incident, in which Myra's body cooperated enthusiastically, even though her mind was on the "Escape Hatch" and the hoard that would make it possible to get away from this constant use of her body and its strangely eager response.

Skibo came regularly to see her, screw, and pay, still only the five dollars, though her price was constantly rising. She knew by now that Skibo was not expected to pay any of the girls he screwed but she accepted his five dollars gravely. She did not know that Skibo and the Madam were screening her customers, turning aside the half drunk and the nasty, each with an obscure and rather uneasy feeling that they were protecting something especially precious.

John Smathers had become a fixture in her life, a very agreeable fixture in spite of his rather odd to Myra demands. His particular variation of the "sixty-nine," as she had come to know it, rather intrigued her. She had had no idea her throat could give such response or that the male taste of him could be so desirable. In addition he often heard her lessons, expanding her horizons immeasurably.

She learned to lean on him, an odd father substitute, this lover with his special needs. She confided in him her dream of the "Escape Hatch" and of the hoard that had, by now, reached respectable proportions. Nearly two thousand dollars, since she spent almost nothing of her earnings. She didn't use cosmetics and her clothes were simple. She had no use for a car, since she wasn't yet old enough to drive. Perfumes didn't interest her, though several of her customers brought her flacons of it in appreciation. Of what none seemed quite to know. It was just a dim, ambiguous feeling that they had been especially privileged.

She was learning. By now she knew that even that prodigious sum, two thousand dollars, would not buy the escape she sought. And there were years ahead of fucking men, of being taken and used and responding.

Madam was scrupulously guarding Myra's "Escape Hatch" hoard, tucking it deep among her flowered and sacheted nighties which had, for her, much the same significance. Someday she would quit this business and wear them with elegance and pride. That they were far too youthful and frivolous and probably far too small for her expanding figure made no difference. They were there, a tangible aspect of her dream.

John Smathers had become a privileged character around the house both because of his regular and expensive use of Myra and of his personal charm and elegance. Once in a while he was even allowed to take Myra on a picnic provided, of course, that he pay the regular fee of the house.

Myra loved these outings, even when she knew he would expect his usual "sixty-nine" up at a cabin he owned in the mountains. She liked Smathers and even enjoyed being naked before him, lying across the bed and letting him play with her breasts and cunt, sucking deep of her, while she took his prick in her mouth, coming to an exciting climax with him.

She liked even better the picnic part, sitting out under the trees, smelling the deep piney woods, and eating sandwiches and cucumbers and hard-boiled eggs. Sometimes that came first and she coquetted with him, building him up to that exciting climax across the bed. Or, if it was afterward, she liked being languidly at ease, nibbling, laughing at something he said, while letting her body ease out its tensions.

After each session they bathed together, standing under the shower, laughing, soaping each other's body in a curiously idyllic state, half sex, half play. Once in a while sex would take over and she would stare at him wide eyed, as he carried her back to the bed. Most of the time she liked these second sessions best, because the desperate urgency was eased and they could play longer with each other's body and climax was longer in coming, a slow but exciting moment. And then another shower together.

John Smathers always paid her price for these extra sessions, insisting it was her right. Myra wasn't so sure because she was aware that occasionally she had teased him into excitation, coquettishly, half deliberately.

It was after one of these prolonged double sessions that they were driving back to town, Myra with her head back against the seat, luxuriating in the smoothness of Smather's big car, dimly regretting that it was over and she, would go back to the house, expecting more customers, more screwing in the standard manner.

They were almost at the house when Smathers speeded up and went on past, his head bent over the wheel, half concealing his face. Myra sat up, peering back. There were police cars in front of the house. She looked at Smathers in bewilderment. "What's the matter? Why didn't we stop?"

"Raid." He said no more until they were safely out of the district and then he straightened, breathing deeply. "They'd have booked you. And since you're a juvenile, possibly have kept you there. We were lucky."

"But," Myra was bewildered, confused, "but the Madam and Skibo pay protection. They told me we wouldn't be raided. They told me it was perfectly safe."

Smathers barked a short, harsh laugh. "Sure. But sometimes protection doesn't hold. Somebody demands an example. For the newspapers. And there's a raid."

Myra was already fumbling at the door. "I have to go back. I have to. My 'Escape Hatch' money . . . "

Smathers clawed her back. "Sit still. It's probably safe. And you'd just stir up a hornet's nest. Child, you're a youngster. Very young . . . "

"I'm almost fourteen. Next week."

"You'll get everybody in very serious trouble, child. Very serious trouble. For just operating a house there'll be fines and suspended sentences. If the police knew you had been staying there, there would be very serious consequences. Possibly even for me. God, I've been a criminal fool!" He sighed deeply, pondering. "We've got to find a place for you. And a cover story. I have a vacant apartment, furnished. It's pretty bad but it'll do. And let's see. You came on ahead and the family will follow. It's weak, but in that neighborhood it will get by. Until we can fix up something permanent."

He grinned at her suddenly. "I might even discover a sister who died and left a motherless niece who came to live with me."

"I'd like that. Living with you. You're fun."

John Smathers sighed. "Unfortunately too many people know I'm an only child. But we'll think of something."

Myra looked bleakly over her shoulder and sighed. "Will we get my 'Escape Hatch' money back?"

"Oh, I'm sure you will. Certain of it. Things will just have to quiet down for a few days."

He was wrong. Myra's "Escape Hatch" hoard mysteriously disappeared in the raid, probably into the pocket of the very policeman who had promised protection.

Skibo told her about it two days later, when he had traced her through John Smathers. "The bastards. They really closed us down. The frigging police! Those bastards. The slimy rats! Can't trust 'em to stay bought ! " And he went on to describe the police in terms Myra had never heard before, not that she cared.

She was too miserable, huddled there in the mangy overstuffed chair, knowing it was all to do over again. How many men would she have to fuck to rebuild that hoard? She couldn't calculate. Just the idea made her sick. She turned her face into the malodorous velvour and wept.

"Don't cry, kid. These things happen. But we'll start up again. Curly's already making arrangements to open up in Norfolk. Lots of sailors there. And soldiers getting ready to go overseas make good customers." He added hastily, "Of course, we save you for the officers. And older men. Guys who can appreciate you."

"I wish I could stay with Smathers. He's nice. Only he can't think of a way."

"Don't worry, kid. You'll like Norfolk. Lotsa money there. Lotsa guys that'll pay well to screw you." He grinned disarmingly. "Even me."

Despite her heartbreak she smiled at him. "You're good to me, Skibo."

And he had the grace to wince guiltily.