Chapter 1
The cavernous shed, constructed of brick, mortar, granite, steel pilings and steel roof structures, was filled with the hammers and rattles and clangs and clanks of working men and women. The sound of workers doing hard manual labor. That it was an automobile assembly line.
Anita Dumont shifted the door into place and began to connect it to the frame of the car taking shape. She had to move quickly. The assembly line demanded workers be fast or fall behind and then face the wrath of supervisors, who in turn faced the wrath of their higher-ups. It wasn't an easy job for a woman to be holding. It was hard work. But Anita was nevertheless glad she had the job.
After the first few days the aches and strains of adjusting to the new job went away. She got used to the job. She no longer complained. There were still some days when she did bitch about it, when she did curse the alarm clock which woke her, when she asked why an experienced, intelligent bookkeeper could not find a job and had to support herself this way. But in the end she told herself not to complain, that things would eventually work out. That word someday vibrated again and again in her head as she worked. There had to be a better way of going about things. A better way of facing what life had to offer.
Her attention was diverted by one of her supervisors stepping up behind her and his hand closing around one, bouncy, satiny asscheek.
"Stop that, Mr. Hampton," she said, turning in rage to look at the gray-haired supervisor with the laughing wide mouth and sharp eyes.
The other workers along the line laughed. When she looked at them, she felt a shiver run up and down her spine. Then she looked at Hampton again.
"Keep working, Anita baby," he smiled without humor. She turned to work at putting doors on car frames, while looking back in fear that he might grab her ass again.
He laughed. She could smell the beer he'd been drinking, even here, among the industrial smells of raw steel, copper and aluminum.
"Whatsa' matter? Afraid I'll grab that big, juicy ass, baby?" There was more laughter from the assembly line. "I can't hurt that much fine meat. No sir, I sure can't."
"To tell you the truth, baby, you shouldn't be so afraid. A girl like you, in her middle twenties ought to be thinkin' of gettin' herself a man. I mean a girl like you has urges. It's natural!"
"My urges, Mr. Hampton, are my business, not yours. And I assure you I don't need help in taking care of them."
He laughed and made a motion of three bunched fingers going in and out of a gaping vagina. "That ain't the solution, Anita. A girl needs a man. If the urge ever gets too great, come see me or give me a call, not after eight though. My loyal wife comes home then. I may not look like much on top, but in bed I'm Tony the Tiger."
"Thanks, but no thanks," she snapped and hastily turned back to her work. Someone called to Hampton and he walked off. Anita was angry. Men shouldn't be allowed to talk that way to women at work.
She had been pinched and groped repeatedly ever since she came to the factory and no matter how many times she told men to leave their cotton picking hands off her they persisted in touching, probing and grabbing. She hated it all.
At first she wondered if maybe some of it was her own fault. The clothes she had come to work in had been a bit too tight. But then, with her body it was hard to get something that wasn't too tight. And then there had been the jeans she wore, the ones Sissy, her next door neighbor had given her. She had worn them to work as a joke, something to wear her first day on the job. On her behind, was a patch with one word in black letters, Silky. On the other cheek a second smaller patch said "Easy Target." It may have been too bold. She hadn't finished one half day of work when a supervisor stepped up, dug hard, hungry fingers into soft, supple ass, and exclaimed, "you are right. It is an easy target!"
Her mouth fell open in surprise. The supervisor walked off laughing. That was the first and last time Anita wore those jeans to work.
The only man she could really relate to was a black haired, mustachioed worker not far down the assembly line. His name was Claude Woolf. He was a gypsy, one of the few who worked and had left the line. He no longer wanted to be a gypsy and wanted to earn an honest living. They sometimes ate together in the cafeteria and spoke on the assembly line. He didn't treat her as a piece of ass, but as a woman and a person, someone to be respected. She liked Claude and would not have minded if he pinched her ass, which he never did. He was married, with a wife and two kids. She once mentioned her jeans to him and said all her troubles had started when she wore them to work.
He grinned. "Dear, they would have taken to you no matter how you dressed," he said. "You're an attractive girl."
Claude Woolf spoke in a polite way. To most men she was a young fuck. As she walked by and she'd heard them saying this. She wanted out of that job so bad. But there simply were no bookkeeper jobs available. Detroit was a tough city to make it in. She would just have to settle down for the long haul.
Aside from Claude and his friendly manner, there wasn't anyone on the line that she really liked. She would listen to him singing the same song he sang over and over. It was cute, sort of.
"There was an old man who went to the West."
"He married a girl who was not the best."
When she went home that night, she prepared dinner, took a short nap and then undressed, so she could take a shower. She looked at herself in the wall length mirror in her hallway and knew that all the things they said about her were true. She had a super body and she wondered how many men she had given hardons to. For an instant this brought a sensuous smile to her lips. But she realized there was danger amidst all the promise.
She remembered when she was in high school, how the boys had been after her, and once even a teacher. One of the guys, who imagined himself to be a playwright wrote a school play, which was put on in the auditorium. It was called, "Pagan Promises." And he wanted her to play the part of the island princess.
She gazed at herself in the mirror now. Fantastic legs. Nice shape, muscles in all the right places, huge thighs that any man would love wrapped around him.
Her cunt bush was excellent; thick, silky, glossy, not vastly kinky. Her pubic lips were pouting and pink, her clit strong and prominent, her gash peeking out wet and salmon colored. It was enough to make some horny man lick his lips.
She had a fine, high chest, two pillowy, upthrust, wide tits that were thirty-eight C's. Her areolas were a darker satin around the pointy tips of her tits. Once, a supervisor grabbed a bosom and squeezed. She got his hand off and told him to keep his hands to himself. He only laughed at her. To some men she was nothing but a toy. The place where that supervisor grabbed her hurt for days and it became darker; the sign for a black that here was a black and blue mark. Only on her it didn't show up so well.
Her face was triangular, more of an inverted heart shape. Her chin was smooth, and her eyes were oval with a slight upward slant at the outer edges.
Her nose was small and aquiline, her lips, sensuous, appealing in shape and size. She knew that many men would love nothing more then to have her soft lips around their straining, hard cocks.
Then she turned around. Her shapely behind was the first thing that would catch the eye of an admiring male. That, she had found her to her pain and rage on more then one occasion.
The smooth sweep of her back above the outward jutting, half-globes of silky brown buttocks, made her ass seem even better.
Hidden deep in the groove between her shapely asscheeks was the puckered her anal orifice. Men did turn on with her.
With that thought making her shiver and the knowledge of what a true ass lover could do to her.