Chapter 12
Rod couldn't help it. It was just too much. He sat on the couch and wiped tears of rage, of pain and frustration from his eyes. Of all the miserable, motherless and totally stupid things to do! Talk about Freudian slips! He was going to slip and end flat on his ass in jail and even there he would get no mercy. Rod had read what the other prisoners in this city's overcrowded jail had done to the last man caught fucking little girls.
Get out of here -- stop at the nearest store and buy a pair of shoes. But he didn't want to make a precipitous retreat. Somebody would notice a man in suit and tie and blue dress socks and no shoes. He had to get back into that bedroom, slip past those bare fits without waking the girl, and find a right shoe. And the hell of it was, he wanted to. He knew it was dangerous. If she woke up and started screaming he might as well go stick his head in the oven. But for one more look at that lovely little matched set of mammaries...
I'll keep my face to the wall. I won't look. I'll just slip around and get a shoe out of the closet and... And suddenly Rod knew what he was going to do.
There was no need to cover his ass by calling up the county and getting all kinds of strangers' noses into his business. He didn't care much what happened to Rose -- not after the bind she'd gotten him into. But Rod had two other lady friends. He could call Hazel or Vera, tell them the strict and absolute truth, bearing down on how this had cooked old Rambling Rose's goose and that from now on if Hazel or Vera would just do him the favor of chaperoning this little bitch or, better still, taking her home for a week, he'd be ever so grateful and in the future there would be one less cunt to make demands on his declining virility and, please Vera?
He dialed the lissome blonde's number. To hell with waking up the girl. He wasn't going back into that bedroom alone with her. No way!
Vera didn't answer. Fifteen rings later she still didn't answer. Shit! Was she still at the hairdresser or had she already gone out to work again? What time was it? He dialed Hazel's number and immediately learned that "At the customer's request this number has been taken temporarily out of service." So Hazel was off on vacation or some such thing. Who the hell else could he call?
The county, that's who!
Sighing, he put the phone back on the hook as quietly as possible. Had he awakened the girl with the noise of dialing? If she'd been on a bus for two days she was probably numb. But she'd slept quite a few hours. Any minute now she was going to come stumbling naked through that door, whining "Mommy, where's my rooooobe?"
He had to sneak in there and get a pair of shoes. He had to get the hell out of here. Every minute he spent here alone with this child was a minute that would have to be accounted for and explained away.
Child shit! She was old enough to grow tits -- old enough to come sneaking into his bed! Why was he worried? He hadn't done anything wrong. Rod had taken her in. He had fed her. He had made a bed for her. So why the fuck couldn't she lie in it? Lie in it. Lie. She would lie her goddam little head off when some juvenile court officer started interviewing her. She would be the injured innocent and Rod, good old blameless Rod who hadn't laid a hand on her -- good old Rod was going to get his ass racked. How old was she?
Rose had said she was fifteen. It wouldn't be the first time that manipulating bitch had lied. Was she even coming back at all? Maybe Rambling Rose had decided to bug out for good and leave him stuck with this kid for the rest of his life... Get in there and get your shoes.
Before he could waffle on it again Rod got to his feet, went to the bedroom door, opened it as quietly as he could and sneaked a quick look at a pair of bare tits -- at a girl to see if she was asleep. Jesus, what a lovely set of jugs. Get your shoes! He turned his face to the wall and congratulated himself. He still had a little self control left. His brains didn't turn to peanut butter and slide down to swell his cock at the mere thought of a fifteen-year-old. Slowly, he felt his stocking footed way along the wall, back to the closet door he had left open on his last abortive shoe hunting expedition.
So what the hell pairs-half pairs, that was -- which shoes did he have out there? He didn't know. Jesus H. Christ? What had happened to his head? Despairingly, he scooped up as many as he could carry. Clutching the armload of shoes to his chest, he began edging his way out of the bedroom, still facing the wall, still praying the gentle sound of her deep steady breathing would not change.
Pussyfooting around in his own goddam bedroom, for Christ's sake! He was nearly to the door when he suddenly realized there had been a simple solution to this problem all the time. All he'd really had to do was knock on the door, tell her to cover up, and walk in and help himself to whatever shoes he needed. But what was she doing in his bed in the first place?
There must be a slight draft somewhere. The door had gone half shut while he rummaged in the closet. Still facing away from the bare titted girl in his bed, he reached to pull it open. A shoe dropped from the mass clutched to his chest. It hit the carpeted floor with a thump he could have heard a block away.
Oh shit, oh Christ, oh Jesus! He froze, waiting for the girl's steady breathing to change, for her to sigh, yawn, open her eyes and scream. It didn't happen. After half an eternity of frozen suspense he edged out of the bedroom, spilled his armload of shoes on the sofa, and went back to the door. The shoe he had dropped was just inside. His eyes drifted back to those lovely firm jugs pointing defiantly skyward without the slightest hint of sag or droop. Jesus! What would happen if the girl were to wake up and catch him not just in the room, but with his hands making a warm living bra for those lovely erotic volcanoes?
Rod shuddered. He couldn't take his eyes away. Kneeling, he searched blindly for his shoe, still burning those twin peaks into his memory bank, arms aching from the effort not to reach out and grab.
This was his dream girl. He knew that now. He also, with some tiny still sane corner of his mind, realized she could not possibly have been born yet when he began having those lovely lascivious dreams so much more exciting than the real thing. It had to be a coincidence. She was just some girl who happened to fit exactly into the pattern of some Freudian garbage in his subconscious. Who was the original? Who cared? Probably the original whoever she was would be fat and fifty by now. But Rod was here, panting and yearning, eyes burning those twin volcanic shapes that fascinated him, made him want to grab, kiss, nuzzle, devour. Get your goddam shoe!
This was what it must be like, he suddenly realized, to be an alcoholic -- or to be saddled with a hundred-dollar a-day habit. He could not remember when he had had such an irresistible compulsion to do something that he knew goddam well was instant trouble. Not even thirty years ago all that lone hot summer when he had admired the new pair of tits in old Mr. Elton's store.
It would be so easy to reach out and grab those tits, pull that sheet the rest of the way off and find out once and for all whether she was old enough to have any blond fuzz around her little snatch. So easy... and so totally and irrevocably disastrous. What could he do if she were to wake up wild eyed and screaming? This was how murders were committed -- by some poor frightened man who could not keep his hands to himself, who panicked and silenced his screaming victim any way he could. Rod felt sweat start from his brow.
His hands were trembling so bad he knew he wouldn't be able to hang onto that goddam shoe even if his blind sweeps across the floor were ever to find it. Get out of here! He drew a deep breath, held it, released it and drew , another. Struggling as he had never striven before, he got his eyes away from those twin man magnets on the sleeping girl's bare chest. His, shoe was right in front of him. He captured it and, still on hands and knees, backed out of the bedroom. He was silently puffing the door shut when he heard a long, sensual moan.
Christ, he thought, what a narrow escape! For a moment there he had known he was going to lose, that like it or not, his hands were going to reach out and cup those firm little tits and she was going to wake up and -- He staggered blindly to the couch and wiped the sweat from his face. He was breathing in short puffs as if he were halfway into a heart attack. His eyes wouldn't focus. He leaned back on the sofa and forced himself to breathe slowly and regularly. Minutes passed and finally he guessed he could see to get his shoes on.
He must have five or six pairs here. Silently, he sorted through them and found a pair of wellingtons that would not seem too weird with a business suit. He put them on and fastened the buckles. So now what? Get out and . make your phone call!
He couldn't move. He sat on the couch, shoes and suit on, ready to face the world. And he couldn't move. He had managed to slow down his breathing now and he was no longer sweating. He struggled to analyze his mental state. Why couldn't he move?
Was his old id still planning on putting a worm into that lovely little apple that sighed and yawned and stretched and moaned in his bedroom? Or could there possibly be some more charitable cast to it? The poor girl had been shuffled around a lot in the last few days. A long, foot-swelling bus trip and he didn't even know where she'd come from. Then just as she had thought she was reaching a quiet haven with her rambling Aunt Rose, little Ellie had been bundled off across town to sojourn with still another stranger.
Children, Rod knew, were far more resilient and adaptable than the shrinks would have people believe. He reflected on his own boyhood when pounding his pillar had been blamed for everything from hair on the palms of one's hands through pimples, on through criminality and eventually the lunatic asylum. The only thing it had ever done for him as a boy was relieve the strains of adolescence and help him get to sleep. And if one were to be honest about it, what angelic little girl had not at one time or another discovered the delicious warm glow that could come from spreading her thighs and patting her hairless little pussy until something even nicer than ice cream happened inside her still growing little belly?
"Aaaaaaaahhhhh!"
Rod came out of his reverie with a jump. What the hell was Vera doing here? Had he called her after all? Then abruptly he realized it was not Vera. It was little Ellie waking up in his bed, luxuriating in horizontality after two nights aboard a bus.
Visions of sugarplums danced through his head at the thought of that taut, still growing little body stretching, kicking the covers the rest of the way off, arching her back and thrusting her tits skyward, putting arms behind her blond head, thrusting her legs ceilingward as she fought off sleep. Did he dare try for a look through the keyhole?
Now wouldn't that be something! About the time he got on his knees and began aiming his eye the door would open and she would stand there looking at him and Rod would be caught with his cock up and his psyche down.
"Aaaaaahhhhh!"
Just the sound of that lovely moan made him frantic. He remembered lovely long legged Vera, how she had wriggled and squeezed his cock with her capable funnel shaped pussy while emitting that same commentary. Christ! He didn't want to fuck this girl. He just wanted to look at her, maybe touch those unbelievably firm and symmetrical little pectoral volcanoes, memorize the size and shape of a just-maturing and still scant-furred pussy.
"Aaaaaahhhh!" There she did it again and finally Rod realized that it was true. His ears were not playing tricks. The girl was not really moaning 'aaaahhhh'. She was calling "Rooooood!"
There was only one Rod here. Well, he admitted with a wry grin, two if you wanted to count Rod's rod. It was too late now. He should have gotten out of here and made his phone call instead of mooning around hopelessly over things he knew perfectly well could never be.
So what was keeping him? He had his keys in his pocket. The door to the bedroom was closed. He could still slip out of here and be gone, handle it quickly, cleanly and neatly without ever seeing the girl again.
But, though Rod knew children are far less fragile than most people believe, and can grow up into normal well adjusted adulthood after unbelievable battering and sexual abuse, he also knew she had been given two fast shuffles already. Could he really give her a third?
Rationalizing, he told himself. Making up fine phony fibs to excuse yourself and do what you really want to do. Get out of here and make your phone call. What was the proper age for a kid to start flicking? Not what society accepted or demanded, but plainly and physically, when was a child ready? As soon, Rod guessed, as a boy was old enough to get a hard-on and to start wanting to stick it into girls. And girls? What the hell? Whenever they were old enough to want to feel something hot, hard and male sliding into them -- whenever they could enjoy it without hurting -- that was when they were ready. He remembered the mooning, the moody secretiveness, the incessant fist pounding of his boyhood. Christ! How much simpler life would have been if he'd found a sympathetic and under-standing older woman when he first started waking up with sticky sheets instead of a couple of years later!
In Rod's day there had been the ever-present fear of pregnancy. Nowadays... he wondered what kids nowadays were really doing. The papers and the sociologists and all the armchair experts could make up their own statistics to prove the world was going to hell -- as if it hadn't been heading that way since the old stone age. But this lovely little piece of quiff in his bedroom, for example... She had climbed into his bed while he was sleeping. What did she really want? Surely she must have had at least some idea what was likely to happen to girls who climb into men's beds.
Or did she believe any man with gray hair was long since out of it? Jesus! If only he could make up his mind. Did he want to fuck her or didn't he? Of course he wanted to. But was he going to? Or was he going to play it cool in his old age and turn down a lovely little piece of ass just because there might be some danger involved?
From behind the bedroom door he heard that voice once more calling "Rooooood!"