Chapter 3
She rose groggy, showered, did her hair, but still felt exhausted from last night. Her tits hurt where he had fingered them. Her cheeks and jaw were sore. Her head and neck muscles ached. She felt the start of a headache coming on and went and took two aspirin. Anita did not feel like eating breakfast after what that satan-lucifer did to her.
She got the frying pan, added some oil, broke in two eggs, added pepper, fried a rasher of bacon. The four strips began to sizzle. A sound she would have loved any other morning but this one. Her stomach felt a bit on edge from taking the aspirin without anything to line her stomach. She remembered the admonition of her mother to never take any medication without some food to line and protect her stomach first. Always after a meal, her mother said. These words rang in her ears now. But it was too late to think of that. This wasn't her morning to think constructively.
She started the boiling water for the coffee. She didn't like the ordinary brands. She bought General Mills Cappuccino or Mocha. It cost a hell of a lot less than other brands selling in the stores and it tasted so much better. All she had to add were two teaspoons of sugar and stir. She had an eight ounce tumbler of Hawaiian punch along with her breakfast.
Anita couldn't stand eating without something to drink. Her mouth got. dry and she needed to wash the food down and at the same time hated to drink water. It just lacked the punch she looked for in a drink. Too much soda gave too much gas, so she drank juice. All kinds of juice. Orange, grape, apple, raspberry, cranapple, and punch.
She ate though she had no appetite. It would be a hard, long day on the assembly line and Anita needed energy to work. No food on top of the agony of yesterday and her storm tossed night would make the day tiring and tortuous. And when a woman or man was worried, that eight hours could be eight weeks long. She'd seen it before, in herself and others.
She went to brush her teeth and gargle. This was to loosen food particles, which she knew could harm the teeth, and to kill bad odors. She didn't want to do this either. But it was one of the normal routines she went through that made her seem more human and yesterday less of a horror.
Anita still felt funny. It had not all been the horror she had expected rape to be. That deep, gut and bone wrenching horror that would make a girl sob all day long.
The horror had ended quickly to be replaced by a neutral numbness and even an awareness that if he had not forced her in such a way to serve him she might have enjoyed what they were doing.
But all that was shoved into the background by the savage and ruthless grinding blowing she was forced to give and the twin cummings in her mouth and then down her throat and into her belly. She had walked out from there in the end numb more than anything, afraid of losing her job and terribly exhausted. She got home, barely had some coffee, tried to watch TV, then fell into bed and slept, woke up, slept and woke up again.
She finished with breakfast, put the dishes in the sink and decided to wash them when she got home. Then she dressed and went off to work.
The world seemed to pass her by, with Anita being only half aware of the people on the bus, the bodies, the chatter. The voices of people held few troubles and their only concern was over what had been on TV last night and what would be on tonight.
One man said, "I'm crazy about the Rockford Files. I watch him Friday nights and then the repeats on Monday nights. I saw most of them a few years ago. But I've forgotten them by now, so it's just like watching a new show all over. The older ones are still good. They've aged only a bit."
The other man answered that he too liked the Rockford Files. They came to her stop and she got off, along with many other workers. A couple of the men looked at her, made hour glass shapes in the air with their hands and smiled. She thought to herself, "circling buzzards."
She went into the plant and to the assembly line. Anita barely paid attention to the chatter of the other workers about clubs and bars they'd been too and woman they'd met and things they'd bought. The younger black men raised their voices when she went by, talking about their conquests, thinking that this would set her off. It didn't.
As she got on the line Claude Wolff came over. "Well, how was it? What happened? Did you go in on the left foot and leave with the right, like I told you?"
She felt like telling him to go buzz off. There were questions, so many questions. But he had been nice to her. No, she would talk with him. She wouldn't tell him everything, but she would talk with him.
"Not too good and not too bad," she said; answering his first question. Then, she went on before he could ask anything more. She couldn't bear his prying. He wasn't really doing that, but she was so sensitive to anything he said.
"He wanted to talk to me about my work and says he makes it a practice to talk to every new worker and get their impressions and then review their work record to date and tell them what he thinks. He says it makes for a better work relationship."
Claude Wolff scratched his gray and black stubbled chin and said, "I can't remember anything like that happening before." Then he looked off into the distance as he wondered aloud.
"It could be that this is a new policy. It hasn't happened in my years on the job. But then, this King is a new man, been here only six months and I guess he does things that way where he comes from."
Anita almost smiled at the way Claude was seriously taking what she said and wondering over this non-existent bullshit. He would probably think about it all day, discuss it with others, warn some of the new workers what they had waiting and they'd worry about it too.
"And did you go in on your left foot and leave on your right?"
"I went in on my left, but," she shrugged," I didn't leave on my right. Maybe I did. I can't really remember." Nor had she been in a state to remember.
When she saw the disappointed look on his face, she said, "it really didn't matter. Things would have gone the same anyway. They came out alright, you could say."
He shrugged, not really sure, wanting to say more, but then the plant whistle blew and the new shift began to work the assembly line, which moved into high gear. Claude ran to his place and she began to work with regular motions.
In a way she was glad for the work. It kept her from thinking about what she had gone through and because of that she could find some solace in what was normally boring and tension inducing labor.
Two hours into the workday Hampton stepped up behind her. She almost felt him before she saw him. He raised a hateful feeling in her. She turned, stared him in the face and asked what he wanted. He was a bit taken back by the sharp undertow in her voice. But since he had been told by King to go and get her, he forgot that and said, "King wants to see you."
"Why?"
"Go and find out." A shiver crawled up along her spine. She couldn't say no. She'd be fired. But King might rape her. Then again he might be having second thoughts and maybe wanted to test out the waters and see if she was going to tell someone on him. If so, she would make him pay and pay. He'd pay that blowjob. Imagine, him using her like a common street hussy. Still boiling, she left her place and Hampton had to take her spot while she headed for King's office.
When she got there he was sitting behind his desk, paperwork on it, but him not doing anything but waiting for her.
"Shut the door," he insisted.
"So you can take me again," she asked? Her voice was sharp, her hate strong, the aches of yesterday and this room making the moment vivid.
He smiled grimly. "I'll have you again, when I want to. But not yet. I have things I want to talk to you about."
"What?"
"Your body. Your good, wonderful, soft, fuckable body. I like it and I'm sure a hell of a lot of other men do. And I'm sure with the experience you showed when you blew me, that this isn't your first time or even the tenth. You've had men, you have had experience."
"So what? I've had men," she said, pounding her chest above her great breasts, raising her voice, "but they've been men I've chosen or who've chosen me. Not men who forced me to suck."
"Keep your voice down, others'll hear," he said, with a tight, toothy smile. The glints were back in his eyes; hard, steely glints. His eyes were alive, more alive than the flat mask of his face.
"People are out there you know." That told her he wouldn't try anything so far. And she remembered not hearing a click when she came in and shut the door. Knowing she was safe and would not have to face yesterday again, at least not now, made her relax some.
Her eye caught the title of some porno paperback he had on his desk, "Young Bitches Get Restless." She smiled smugly. That would be typical of his type of man.
He went on. "A girl like you has talent. Talent that shouldn't be wasted on an assembly line." He pointed toward the outside of the office, at the assembly line they could not see, only visualize from where they sat.
"Working an assembly line is hard on the body. It can age a pretty girl. You should be doing other things."
"I would be doing other things," she almost spat, "if it weren't for this goddam job market. I wouldn't have to work an assembly line to support myself. I'd be a bookkeeper like I always wanted, making much more than what I'm making now, using my hand and not my hands."
"There's nothing wrong in using one's hands."
"I'd rather use my head."
"You got to, yesterday," he said with a grin.
"Not that kind of head," she spat.
"You can advance," he told her.
"How," she asked sarcastically?
"My way." He touched his chest. "By going down to go up. I could, how do you say, introduce you to higher ups who need it lower down." He touched his crotch and grinned. "You could be transferred from department to department; bringing happiness to your fellow man and in turn earning the rewards of a happier life."
"What the hell do you think I am?"
"I know what you're not," he said. "You're not happy. You're not working the kind of job you want, at the money you want. Do it my way." Again, he tapped his chest.
"What would this get me," she asked; just curious, not yet ready to say yes?
"I could talk to the guy over me. He's a bachelor. A pussy lover and sharp as a goddam whip. He gets women, though with his face I don't know how. He takes care of the shipment and financing department. He orders the metals and plastics and other materials that go into car making. He bargains for the right price. He heads the payroll department and that sort of thing. I might be able to get you a job as a secretary, typing up payrolls. Not quite bookkeeping, but it's closer to your goal.
"Let's face it," he said, at his most persuasive now, his voice dripping honey, "you'll go on giving ass to men. Why not these? Guys like the one I've talked about and others I can contact. They're nice men, not repulsive at all. If you met them in a bar you'd be going to bed with them anyway. Why not now? Why not to advance your career?"
"I couldn't," she said, her determination wavering; her eyes on some far off goal she was seeing. "It would be simple prostitution."
"It wouldn't. Prostitution is something done by girls on street-corners for money, for quickies. This would be a more substantial thing. A favor in return for a favor."
His eyes watched her, his face beneath the smiling exterior, cold and calculating. He knew then that he had her. King went on.
"Look, wives do it. Girlfriends do it. They make their man feel good, so they can get presents. Wives do it to keep husbands and families together. Wives who don't feel much passion or love for the man they're with. And that marriage is just a piece of paper, not a marriage. If they can do it, so can you, for a hell of a lot more than they're doing it for."
"I couldn't."
"Sure you could. Why don't you go back to your job," he said, rising to show the interview was over, adding, "think it over while you work. After work, come back here, we can go to The Jade Cat. It's not far from here. A nice little bar-restaurant. We can have some drinks, talk it over, have supper. No need you're struggling home each night to make supper."
"I don't know."
"Listen to me. Think about it. Come back here after work."
She rose, and as she did, she spotted another paperback beneath the one she'd seen before. Part of it protruded. She read the unique title. "Cocksuckers In Paradise."
Then she left.
She went back to her job, thinking about all he had said and wondering what it really would be like to be a woman of passion, pleasing to men and at the same time pleasing them. It was wrong she told herself. But, looking around at her future now, she realized it could be better and this was one of the ways to make it so.
The work day ended, she went to change and then to King's office. He was waiting for her. "Well, don't we look fine," he said with a smile and a grin.
"Come on." He led her from the office, carrying a small, black leather attache case. The executive elevator, took them hastily down to the inside garage where King kept his Mercury Marquis. She would have thought someone as fancy oriented as he was would drive a Lincoln Continental or a Cadillac De Ville.
He drove her out of there and past the workers streaming to their cars. She thought she spotted Claude Wolff, but she wasn't sure. In no time at all they were out of the plant grounds and heading through shaded streets, past nice homes in the forty to sixty thousand dollar range.
Finally, he turned onto a broad avenue and then found parking in front of The Jade Cat. He locked up and they went inside. The maitre d' stepped up and King asked for a table and booth at the back.
It was not too crowded here. There was green carpeting on the floor, nice crystal chandeliers, white linen tablecloths, smooth, orange jacketed waiters.
They got their table and King held her chair, not displaying one bit of the hardness he had shown yesterday. They sat down and ordered. Rob Roys, steak and lobsters, green salad, creamy Russian dressing, french bread, Irish coffee for dessert.
The food, when it came, was good and she was hungry enough to forget for a moment what he'd brought her here for. But halfway through the meal he began his spiel.
"Were you thinking about what I said?"
"Unhuh."
"Have you decided yet?"
"No."
"Well, hurry up, decide. The sooner you do, the sooner I can get moving. And the sooner I get moving the sooner you move up and out. Think of it, honey, no more assembly line."
She almost smiled as she closed her eyes. No more assembly line. No more dull, routine. It sometimes made her clench her teeth together to do that job. It was one of the dullest assembly lines she'd ever worked. And she wasn't the only one to say that.
"I don't know," she said as she opened her eyes.
"Look, sweet cheeks, do you want to spend all your life on that line?"
"I don't intend to."
"Well, you don't have to spend anymore time there now. That bookkeeping job isn't around the corner. This is. Look at the here and now." He pointed at the tablecloth.
The waiter came over and asked if they would like a refill of their Rob Roys. "Sure, why not? Want another," he asked? She shrugged and shook her head.
As the waiter laughed and walked away, King laughed. "Why not," he asked? "It's free. And don't worry about the alcohol. It'll have much less effect after all this food we've eaten." He patted his belly.
After the drinks were brought over, he again asked for an answer. "Don't be indecisive, like most women are?"
"I am not indecisive," she said; disgust showing in her eyes, her voice rising. He looked around to see if anyone heard and made downward motions with both hands. He didn't want to be heard in this restaurant.
She looked around, seeing the stone green cats on shelves set into the wall. These were the imitation jade cats for which the restaurant had been named.
He lit a cigarette and took a sip of his drink. "This is no engagement party," he told her. "This is a business offer. In business you have to decide fast or life passes you by."
"There is also such a thing as deciding too fast," she reminded him. "I'm sure you've heard the folly of doing that."
"I've heard. But there's a big difference about between waiting to see and missing the boat, and you," he pointed with the cigarette at her, "are missing it."
"I'm not so sure," she said, seeing relief at one end and also a conflict with her inner self. She was a soul in turmoil and he saw it.
"Maybe," she said, "something will come up. I could win a lottery."
"You could also be the first woman sent to Mars. Cut out this bullshit. Even if you did win a lottery it might not be more than ten grand. What're you making now?"
"Nine. I'll be making nine-and-a-half soon."
"And you're not making out well on that; are you?" She shook her head, "Well, ten won't be too much higher. And if you do win it you'll be in a higher tax bracket. So you'll pay a lot more out of that ten than you would just making ten as a salary. Money looks better on paper than in real life. I mean it's good, but never as good as we expect it to be."
"I wouldn't mind the ten thousand, even if I had to pay tax on it and I might win fifty or a hundred thousand."
"That's just putting your dreams a trifle too high." He stubbed out the cigarette. "Ten thousand is nice, but no substitute for a job. You'll be needing ten like that every year. And ten isn't anything with the way inflation moves up.
"Take some guy who wins a hundred thousand. He quits his job and tries to live on his money. It can't be done. Before too many years pass it's all gone. Because ten isn't enough, he spends twelve, then fourteen. He forgets a man with an average salary makes as much and spends as much as he won in seven years or even less.
"You can't beat it. Money is only good when you win it and put it away, then live on the salary you make each day."
"Maybe I'll win a million."
"Maybe St Peter will knock on your door and tell you you'll go to heaven and that you'll live to the ripe old age of one hundred before you croak. Be realistic! One guy in maybe five million can win in a million dollar lottery. And you can be sure it won't be you. When you're in trouble and you're depending on luck to come through, then it doesn't. Life is full of more heartbreak than success stories. Those who come to success usually make it happen.
"There was a guy I knew who used to write on the blackboard next to this desk, The harder I try, the luckier I get.' That's the best damned motto I ever heard. And it applies here too. What about it?"
"What would I have to do?"
"How the hell would I know! Every man has different tastes. I expect some of them are pure muff men. You'd just have to go belly up, legs spread wide and take it between the chops. Some might be like me and would enjoy a good pair of lips sucking away on their prong. Others might enjoy a nice, tight, greased asshole."
Stars flew before her eyes. He spoke about this as if it were an everyday matter. To him it was, but to her it meant more, much more.
"Okay," she said, with a final nod. "I'm ready to go. Make your call. But not for today. I want to go home, rest up. Let it be tomorrow."
"Fine," he said with a smile as he made a sign for the waiter to come over with his bill.