The Shaver III 1/2 by Al Steiner (FFM)
al_st...@hotmail.com
sure if I am going to continue this story line or not. If the response is
favorable, perhaps I will. If the response is unfavorable or non-existent, I
most likely won't. I have some other ideas I'm itching to put down. In any
case, please send me comments on this installment. The address, as always, is
al_st...@hotmail.com
THE SHAVER III
By Al Steiner
I called David at work to tell him that I would be going out that night and
that I might possibly be late getting home. I had a lie already formulated
in my mind; that I was going to a PTA meeting with some of the other mothers
at the academy and that we were going to have coffee and pastries afterword.
If David had offered any sort of objection to this, if he had simply said,
'gee Hon, I really wish you'd be home tonight' or something like that, I
would have canceled in an instant. But I didn't even get to speak directly
to him at that time. I got his secretary, who told me that David was in an
important meeting and that she would pass along the message. When he did
call me back several hours later he agreed quickly with my plans, told me
that he himself was working late again anyway, and hung up. Status Quo
there.
With a sigh I called my mother, asking if she could watch the kids until late
that night.
"How late?" She asked.
"I'm not sure." I told her. I had no idea at what time I would come home. It
was possible, even probable, that David would return before me. "Probably
until David comes home from work."
If she'd offered the slightest hint of hesitation I would have cancelled
because of that. In truth, I was looking for a reason to bow out of this
party that Charlie wanted me to go to. But mom offered no such hesitation.
I could almost hear her shrug over the phone. "Sure," She said. "I'll be
over around 4:30 or so. If you or David runs too late, I'll just stay in the
guest room."
"Thanks Mom." I said numbly, knowing I had no more excuses.
Before picking the kids up from school I stopped at Nordstrom's. I was
amused to note how indecisive I was in picking out a simple pair of shorts
and something that resembled a T-shirt (I would not be caught DEAD in an
actual T- shirt, no matter what the occasion). I finally settled on a pair
of white shorts, a frilly, pullover blouse, and a new pair of deck shoes. I
rang the purchases up on my seemingly limitless credit card and was nearly
late for pick- up.
I got dressed early, very early. By the time my Mom showed up at 4:30 I was
fidgeting nervously in the unfamiliar clothes, having done and redone my hair
three times. I'd downed three tall glasses of wine while I'd done this and
was feeling the beginnings of a pleasant buzz.
Mom, at fifty-two, is still an attractive woman thanks to multiple plastic
surgeries, breast enhancements, and regular tanning salon sessions. She looks
no more than thirty-five and we are often mistaken for sisters when we are out
together. She greeted the kids stiffly and formally, saying all of the proper
grandmotherly things to them. She raised her eyebrows when she took in my
attire.
"Jennifer Dear," She asked. "You're going out dressed like THAT?"
"Yes Mom." I answered. "I'm going to, well a little informal party."
"A party??" She said, appalled. To my Mom a party meant a formal occasion,
something that required a dress that had never been seen on my body before and
that cost a minimum of four hundred dollars. Until that day, that was what a
party meant to me too.
"Yes Mom." I answered. "It's very informal. More of a gathering of friends,
I guess."
"Jennifer," She said. "Are you SURE you're dressed appropriately? Who invited
you to this party?"
I took a deep breath, knowing that I had to involve my mother to a certain
degree in this conspiracy, hoping that family loyalty would override her
snobbery. "David's sister invited me." I shrugged, offering a playful smile.
"It sounded like fun."
"You don't mean," She asked, distaste plain upon her face, "The sister that's
a.... " She could barely say it. "A fireman?"
"Firefighter." I corrected. "And she usually works as a paramedic anyway." I
added, as if this distinction would make a difference to my mom. "She's
really nice. She wanted me to come with her (in more ways than one, I
thought deliciously) and I told her I would."
"But Jennifer...." Mom started.
"Mom," I said. "I can take care of myself. But don't tell David where I am.
He'd hit the roof. Tell him I went to a PTA meeting and am going for coffee
afterwards."
She shook her head in puzzlement for a moment but agreed to do as I asked.
"Sometimes I just don't understand you Jennifer." She said. "Do you have some
wine in the refrigerator?"
At 5:30 Charlie's Jetta roared into my driveway once again. By this time I'd
drank another two glasses of wine with Mom and was feeling very mellow.
My kids greeted Charlie with much more enthusiasm than they'd shown my mother.
"Auntie Charlene!" They cried, rushing to her and giving her hugs and wet
kisses. She returned their embraces with genuine affection.
"Did you bring us stickers? Did you bring us stickers?" They asked, nearly
slobbering with anticipation.
Mom was again appalled. "Children!" She barked forcefully, overriding my
parental obligations without a second thought. "Your manners!"
"It's okay Mrs. S." Charlie said, reaching into her purse and withdrawing what
the kids wanted, some junior firefighter stickers with the Seattle Fire
Department's logo on them. She handed them over and the kids squealed in
delight, jumping up and down.
Mom was looking at my young sister-in-law as if she were a nasty cockroach
that had invaded her kitchen. Part of it was Charlie's attire; a gray
half-shirt with the emblem of a local gym on it (again showing off her smooth
stomach and her naval ring) and a tight, brief pair of blue jean shorts that
left little to the imagination. Part of it was Charlie herself (a mere civil
servant). But the biggest part of it perhaps was the way that Charlie had
addressed her; Mrs. S. As far as I know, nobody had EVER addressed Mom in
this manner before in her life.
"Jennifer," Mom started, turning towards me, God knows what was about to come
out of her mouth.
But Charlie spoke first. "You ready Jen?" She asked, taking in my outfit. "You
look hot."
I nodded, casting a nervous eye at Mom.
"Then let's do it." She said, turning towards Mom. "Nice to see you again
Mrs. S. I'll keep your daughter safe tonight." She winked. "After all, I
know CPR."
Mom's mouth was agape. We exchanged quick hugs and kisses with the kids and
were out the door in a flash. A minute later we were roaring away in her
Jetta, the top down, the warm air blowing our hair.
"Where are we going?" I asked Jen as we accessed the freeway and headed
towards downtown. The sun was sinking in the sky but still shining brightly.
We moved along swiftly but in the opposite lanes, traffic was backed-up and
at a near standstill with the midst of rush hour.
"It's kinda hard to describe until you've seen it." She said, smiling. "But
let me tell you, it ain't the Ritz."
She would say no further on our destination. She shot through downtown and
headed south, catching the tail end of traffic leaving that area. She took
an exit that was identified by a street number only, leaving the freeway into
a part of town that immediately got my adrenaline flowing. We were passing
used car dealerships and low rent apartment complexes, weaving in and out of
traffic that consisted of run-down vehicles with dangerous looking thugs in
them. They all stared at us as we passed, two attractive women in a Jetta.
Many of them pointed and offered unheard but obviously obscene comments.
"Charlie," I asked nervously, averting my eyes from the latest obscene
commentator. "Is this safe?"
She scoffed, flipping her middle digit at the car in question without even
glancing at the occupants. "Of course it's safe." She told me. "We're going
to a party full of cops. What could be safer?"
I nodded, unconvinced, wondering if the people that she had just flipped off
were going to force us off the road, kidnap us, rape us, murder us.
"There's my fire station." Jen said, pointing at a dilapidated building with
three bay doors, shut, and an American flag atop of a pole. The station
looked old enough to have once quartered horse drawn fire apparatus. SEATTLE
FIRE DEPARTMENT and the station number were across the top of it, over the
bays.
"You work in THIS neighborhood?" I asked, shocked. "My God, doesn't that scare
you?"
She shrugged. "I've worked in worse." She said. "This place is a step up from
my last station."
I was hard pressed to imagine a worse neighborhood. Was she taking me to a
party around here somewhere? Was there someplace safe around here?
She pulled off of the main avenue and onto a two-lane side street lined with
liquor stores with bars across their windows, cheap motels where hookers
strolled, and disgusting looking apartment complexes where dangerous looking
people were standing outside, drinking large cans of beer, eyeing us as we
passed like hunters eyeing a herd of deer. Gradually the scenery changed over
to warehouses and abandoned business complexes. I saw that graffiti, much of
it illiterate, covered most of the available space on the buildings. The
warehouses began to look empty as we progressed, no longer with cars in the
parking lots, no longer with truck trailers backed into their stalls. We
passed an open field where lush green grass, as high as a man, grew.
Finally we came to a warehouse that looked like it hadn't been used in more
than ten years. Its sliding doors, where trucks had once unloaded, had been
torn down. Its windows were all broken out. Its walls were covered with so
much graffiti that not a single epitaph was discernable.
"Charlie?" I asked, looking at the place with more than a little unease. "Is
THIS where we're going?"
She nodded, pulling her car into the parking lot. "This is the place." She
told me. "The warehouse."
As she pulled around the back I noticed that the parking lot was not entirely
empty. There were fifteen to twenty cars parked next to the building; and
not the sort of cars you would expect to find in this neighborhood. Late
model four wheel drives, Toyota Camry's, Honda Accords, a couple of
motorcycles, a Corvette, a Beemer. Near the rear of the warehouse, out of
sight of the nearest road, a bonfire was burning, built from what appeared to
be smashed up wooden pallets. A pile of unburned pallets sat about ten yards
away from the fire. Near the bonfire a black barbecue was set up, smoke
billowing from it, the smell of cooking meat and barbecue sauce drifting in
the air. Thirty or so people, a few more men then women, all dressed in
shorts and T-shirts or jeans and T-shirts, were standing around the fire or
sitting around it in lawn chairs. Nearly all had plastic cups in their
hands, which they sipped out of frequently. Next to the barbecue was a park
services garbage can which, for some reason, seemed to be the focus of many
of the people there. A line had formed next to it.
"This is the party?" I asked Charlie in disbelief.
"Not quite high society, is it?" She answered, setting her parking brake and
shutting off her engine. "But I bet it's a lot more fun than the parties YOU
usually go to."
I was speechless, suddenly feeling more out of my element than I'd ever been
in my life. I wanted to demand that Charlie take me home immediately. But I
didn't. I opened my car door and followed her as she headed for the throngs
of people around the fire.
"Charlie!" Several voices greeted happily as we approached.
Music was blaring from a portable stereo system set up near the fire; a modern
rock CD full of bass and electric guitars, a throaty female vocalist slinging
the lyrics. The warmth of the fire passed across me, the smoke scented with a
dry, acrid smell; the smell of a building afire. Next to the barbecue was a
table filled with paper plates, bags of hamburger buns, jars of mayo, mustard,
and relish. Plates of cheese, tomatoes, onions, lettuce sat next to these. At
the end of the table were bowls of potato and macaroni salad and baked beans.
The smell of beer was thick in the air.
A very attractive man of about thirty, wearing tight shorts and no shirt
walked up to Charlie, a pleasant grin upon his face. He embraced her
tightly, letting his hands slide down to her ass cheeks, giving them a
squeeze.
Her boyfriend, I figured. The cop. I marked him as somewhat crude in his
affections, groping her like that in public. He smelled strongly of beer, so
I figured that was the basis for his indiscretion.
"Hey Mikey." She said, smacking him loudly on the cheek and ruffling his hair.
"How's the sex life?"
"The usual." He told her, squeezing her ass once again. "When you gonna leave
that dumb cop so I can pork you a little?"
She giggled, breaking the embrace and making my mouth drop. He wasn't her
boyfriend? Was she some sort of slut, allowing a man that was not her
boyfriend to handle her that way?
"You're married Mikey," Charlie reminded him. "Remember?"
"My wife doesn't understand me." He told her, grinning. "I'm only staying for
the children."
"You don't have children." She shot back.
"Some day we might." He returned. "That's why I have to stay. For the future
children."
"You're scum Mikey." Charlie told him, not unkindly.
"I yam what I yam." He answered in a passable Popeye imitation. He then
looked at me, his eyes showing immediate interest, crawling over my chest,
waist, and legs with such force I could almost feel it. "Who is this
beautiful young lady?" He asked, stepping closer to me.
"This is Jen," Charlie introduced, "My sister-in-law. She wanted to see how
the other half lives tonight." She turned to me. "Jen, this shitheap here is
my partner, Mike Townsend."
"Very pleased to meet you." Mike said, grabbing my right hand and lifting it
to his lips. Before I realized what was happening, he was kissing it wetly.
Charlie, in amused exasperation, slapped it away.
I was speechless, unable even to mutter a perfunctory greeting. In my entire
life I'd never met someone so forward.
"She's married dickwad." Charlie told him. "To someone who donates more to
charity each year than you make."
"I'm married too." Mike called as we walked away from him, heading for the
main crowd. "We can relate to each other!"
I was horrified. "You have to work with that.... that man?" I whispered.
She shrugged. "Mikey's okay." She said. "A typical macho fireman. More brawn
than brains and likes to talk about his hose a lot. He's harmless."
He didn't seem very harmless to me, but I said no further as we entered the
main group of people. I began to hear conversations now, animated and full of
gutter profanity.
"So this scrote starts handin' me this line of shit about how he was just
'borrowing' the Mercedes from his brother's friend. What's the brother's
friends' name? I ask him. 'I forgot' he says. So then the fuckhead
actually...."
Another, apparently from a paramedic, went, "So he just got done takin' his
damn toaster apart at 2:30 in the fuckin' mornin' and then decided to plug it
in and give it a try. Shocked the shit out of himself and damn near burned
down the house when he touched the wrong thing. So I ask him, 'you been
doing any crank?' 'No!!' he says. 'I don't do that shit.' Right, just
decided just that 2:30 was a good time for toaster repair...."
And yet another, "So he tells me he SAT on this pear while he was in the
shower. Sat on it. That's how it got in there. Right, I often take my fruit
into the shower with me. I mean, if you got the guts to call 911 and tell
'em you have a pear up your ass, at least have the guts to tell the truth
about how it got...."
I was amazed, astounded, just from hearing the brief snippets of talk around
me. I also noticed that most of the men, and even a few of the women were
looking at me with variations of the gaze that Mike had just given.
"Here comes Rick." Charlie told me, pointing out a dark-haired man dressed in
cut-off shorts and a white T-shirt. The front of his T-shirt depicted an
American flag on fire. FUCK DEMOCRACY read the motto. The shirt was long and
drooped down over his waistband in a very nerdy way. His knees were slightly
knobby but his legs were not terribly bad. His hairline was receding a bit,
despite the fact that he appeared to be only in his late-twenties. I guessed
that he would be entirely bald by the time he was forty. His smile was
pleasant but his eyes were cynical and probing like Charlie's, even more so in
fact. In his left hand he carried one of the plastic cups.
Charlie broke free of me and rushed to him, throwing her arms around him,
ramming into him with such force that some of the beer in his cup sloshed out
onto his arm. He didn't seem to mind. He returned her embrace and their lips
met in a prolonged kiss that obviously involved some tongue-play. There were
some catcalls and hoots from the other members of the party at this display of
affection. I tried to envision myself rushing to David at a party in this
manner, even in the days before we were married, and the image simply wouldn't
come. It was just not done in our circles and it was something I'd never felt
the urge to do anyway.
After they broke ranks she led him over to me. "Jen," She said, holding
firmly onto his arm. "This is Rick Langely, the current love of my life.
Rick, Jennifer, my hoity-toity sister-in-law."
I felt shame rushing to my face at the manner in which she'd introduced me but
Rick simply chuckled. Obviously he'd been told about me in the past. How
much? I wondered, uneasily thinking of the possibility that Charlie may have
told him about our shaving sessions.
"Nice to meet you." He told me, shaking my hand gently and then releasing it.
"Let's get you girls a drink. The barbecue's almost ready."
"Is there any wine?" I asked timidly and this caused both of them to crack up.
"Oh, there's anything in the world you want to drink here," Rick said, still
chuckling, "As long as it's Olympia on tap." He led us to the rear of the
line before the garbage can. "We have our young friends from West Seattle to
thank for the refreshments tonight." He pointed to a crudely printed and
copied flyer that was taped to the garbage can.
I read it, curious. KEGGER TONIGHT!!! It proclaimed in bold writing. Some
scrawled directions and a small map followed this. Beneath this was: $5.00
ALL YOU CAN DRINK. And then in larger, arrogant letters: NO
COPS---GUARANTEED!!!
"Oh, you meanies." Charlie admonished playfully, reading the flyer. "You
raided their kegger? Do you know how much that used to piss me off when the
cops would raid the keggers back when I was in school?"
"Yeah, me too." Rick agreed, grinning, taking a sip of his beer. "And it was
only two bucks back then. But they issued a direct challenge to our authority
with that 'no cops' shit. How could we not respond to that? We're charged
with keeping fucking order in this city after all." He shook his head in
amusement. "Anyway, we hit the place within a half-hour of the start time,
just before our end-of-watch on the day shift, coincidentally. They hadn't
even managed to drink a pint or two out of the thing and it was still nice and
cold when we got it here."
I was simply unable to believe my ears. The cops had stolen a keg of beer
from teenagers? "Isn't that illegal?" I asked Rick, unable to hold my
tongue.
"Of course." He said, unconcerned with the ethics of the situation. "We'd
all be fired if we got caught doing this. But we won't. You see, if we'd
have turned in the keg like we're supposed to, the evidence guys would now be
doing exactly what we are with the beer. No one KNOWS after all, how much
beer was in the keg. Tomorrow morning we'll give them the empty keg and the
tapper. We didn't arrest anybody at the party, just took their beer away, so
the keg isn't needed for evidence anyway. But, if some teenager actually
works up the guts to tell his old man about the missing keg and tapper, for
which a deposit has been issued, and that father comes down to collect it,
the keg will be there for retrieval." He grinned. "And if the father in
question tries to claim the keg was full when it was confiscated, who is
internal affairs going to have to believe? A teenager, or a bunch of
decorated police department veterans?"
"To protect and to serve, right?" Charlie asked, grinning, grabbing a pair of
plastic cups from a stack on the table and handing me one.
Well I can tell you that my vision of Seattle's finest had certainly been
altered by this information. I'd always pictured cops as stoic, serious
protectors of civilization. Obsessed with law and order. Church going, most
of them, dedicated to preserving the American dream. Rick's FUCK DEMOCRACY
shirt and his story of the kegger raid had managed to wipe this image away in
an instant.
"Fuckin' aye baby." Rick told her, waving Charlie to the garbage can.
I'd never seen a keg before and had no idea what to do with one. It was a
metal cylinder resting inside the garbage can, surrounded by ice cubes of the
type that come in bags from convenience stores. On top of the cylinder was a
round, black device and a white hose. Charlie picked up the end of this hose
and held it near her empty cup. She put her hand down on the black device
and pumped it up and down a few times. She released a valve on the hose and
amber beer sprayed into her cup, filling it. She pumped it a few more times
and then sprayed some beer into my cup. We then headed towards the bonfire.
I sipped out of my beer experimentally, mixed desires flooding me. For one, I
desperately wanted to improve my dying buzz, but on the other hand, I'd never
really been much of a beer drinker before. To my surprise it did not taste as
I'd remembered it. It was in fact icy cold and smooth. Maybe not as good as
white wine, but not reproachful either. I sipped some more.
As the party geared up I learned to love the beer. I learned how to prime the
keg and fill my cup with efficiency. I ate hamburgers with cheese and mayo
smeared on them and gulped down about a half of quart of potato salad. I was
introduced to person after person, most of whom I forgot the moment they were
out of my eyesight. I was hit on by nearly every male that talked to me, and
two of the females. I sat next to Charlie and Rick no matter where they went,
talked little, and listened to the conversations going on around me. It was
quite an eye-opening experience indeed listening to the tales of Seattle's
public servants.
In the course of that party I heard about a woman, tired of being beaten by
her husband, who had screwed three large black men and talked them into
stomping her husband to death. This story was met with cheers of approval
and proclamations that the three black men in question be given public
service awards. I heard about a man that had managed to tear off three
inches of his penis while experimenting with a new, self-invented
masturbation device constructed from PVC pipe and a reversible drill. I
heard about a woman, in graphic detail, that had walked into the tail-rotor
of a helicopter at an airshow. I heard about a couple that had been having a
sex game that involved penetrating her with a .357 magnum and the trigger had
unfortunately been pulled. I heard about a man that thought it was a good
idea to write a hold-up note at the bank on the back of one of his own
deposit slips. I heard about a group of thugs that, after beating a man and
stealing his car from a convenience store parking lot, apparently decided it
would be a good idea to return to that same store to gas up the car while the
police were still there taking a report from the victim.
I heard many other stories, from the points of view of the cops and of the
paramedics and sometimes from the emergency room nurses. Each one seemed
more outrageous than the last. But there was no question in my mind that
they were true. There was none of the forced, polite laughter that was
evident when David or one of his colleagues told of a killer contract or some
other such thing they'd negotiated. Each story was met with laughter and
shaking of heads by the assembled crowd, by a sipping of beer, an inhaling of
a cigarette. Never were the stories met with expressions of disbelief. They
seemed to revel in the amazing stupidity of the human race, at the bizarre
and sometimes deadly situations that people got themselves into. They often
used terms like NHI (no humans involved-as in 'it was one of those NHI
calls...') or Darwin at Work (meaning a person was killed by his or her own
stupidity before he or she had a chance to breed-as in 'yep, it was one of
those Darwin at Work calls...').
I realized, as Charlie had no doubt intended, that there was an entire world
out there that I was not aware of. That there were people out there who,
like her, had chosen to live in that world, among those people, and who, as a
result, were experiencing life in a much more vivid way than I could ever
hope to dream about. It made my structured, organized life with David in my
exclusive suburb seem like a joke to me, a falsehood. I understood, a
little, why my sister-in-law had inserted herself into this culture and why
she refused to leave it. There was an air of camaraderie there that I could
not even fathom.
I realized during my third or fourth beer that I WAS having a good time. I
was laughing, genuine laughter, not the forced, polite kind that I usually
displayed at my husband's parties. Though I talked little, not having any
stories even remotely like the ones that were being offered, I did talk some.
All of the conversation there was not strictly about work. One of the other
women there, a nurse at the trauma center that was dating one of the cops,
had children from her previous marriage. We chatted happily to each other
for more than thirty minutes on the common problems and amusements of child
rearing. I was able to discuss anecdotes with her that I could never have
discussed with the other mothers I usually chatted with. We talked about
having children interrupt you during sex. About children saying embarrassing
and personal things in front of strangers, or, even worse, relatives. There
was more laughter as we chatted.
I got to know Charlie's boyfriend a little better, both by talking to him and
by listening to him. This exposure forced me to re-evaluate my initial
impression of him. He'd seemed somewhat nerdy at first; a man who thought
his little civil service position had him on top of the world; a man who's
position in the middle-class was related entirely to that position; who would
have been poor working class white trash without it. I'd thought him a
balding snip of a man, unworthy of my beautiful sister-in-law's affections.
A man who just might have been after the family fortune behind Charlie. But
after listening to him talk, after seeing him listen for the past hours I
realized that he was more than that. He genuinely enjoyed what he did for a
living and probably didn't give a rat's ass how much money Charlie's family
had. He seemed to despise the rich in fact. He'd told several stories about
having to deal with "high society assholes", as he'd put it. He struck me as
a man who actually liked to get up and go to work every day, who grumbled
about it because it seemed expected of him, but who, if he suddenly DID come
into serious money, would continue to be a cop.
And he really wasn't terribly BAD looking either, a part of me whispered as I
took in the slope of his forehead, the bulge of the muscles that showed
beneath the sleeves of his shirt, the light dusting of hair on his legs.
Charlie had told me that there was nothing like having a man that knew what
he was doing in bed. She'd said it was better than having a woman, which I'd
finally admitted that I'd enjoyed. Did Rick know what he was doing in bed?
I was forced to figure that Charlie, a very sexual creature I knew, would not
have stayed with him if he didn't.
My eyes dropped down to his crotch, which was encased in tight shorts. I
could see the bulge where his cock was and while it wasn't as impressive as
Vic, my personal trainer's, it wasn't bad either. The thought that he would
know how to use his properly, how to push and pull it with just the right
amount of friction, how to use his lips and tongue on a woman's body in the
right way, suddenly made me envy Charlie. She was going home to get a nice,
satisfying lay from this man. To have the kind of sex that made what she and
I had done earlier seem "a little better than jerking off", as she'd put it.
I was going home to a man that may or may not be there, that would most
likely not lay me if he was, and would most definitely not satisfy me if he
did.
There WAS one aspect of the party that, had I known about it in advance, I
would NEVER have agreed to go under any circumstance. But by the time I
arrived there and discovered this horrid circumstance, I was stuck. By the
time I finished my third beer my head was buzzing strongly and I felt my
bladder straining uncomfortably. It was then that I realized there was no
bathroom in sight. I had seen several of the men step around the corner of
the warehouse and return a few minutes later and, though I hadn't thought
anything of this at the time, I now realized that they were going back there
to relieve themselves of their beer. But I had seen no women going off
anywhere to pee. Where did they do it? Surely they didn't squat down around
the corner.
I was so worried about this possibility that I could not work my nerve up to
ask Charlie until I felt I was about to burst. I'd watched for where the
women went and had seen one go inside one of the broken warehouse doors. Had
she gone in there to pee? What had she peed into? She hadn't gone on the
floor had she? That was a horrifying thought.
Finally I could take it no more. "Charlie." I whispered to her, leaning
against her. "I need to pee." I was praying she wouldn't jerk her thumb over
towards the warehouse door or the corner of the building and say 'over
there'.
Instead of this she popped up from her seat, setting her beer down. "I'll
show you where it's at." She told me. "I could use a little drainage myself."
She pointed to the table. "You might want to grab a few napkins. There's no
toilet paper here."
I felt a blush rising to my face as I strolled over to get napkins. I felt as
if everyone was watching me. My blush deepened when one of the lesbian women
said, "I'LL show her where it's at." She licked her lips. "I'll show her how
to use it too."
This statement was greeted by laughter from all that heard it, Charlie
included.
She (Charlie, not the lesbian) led me to the warehouse doors where I'd seen
the previous woman go and then later emerge. So the women's room was in
there. I was afraid of what I would find to pee in. A coffee can? A
garbage can? The floor? The inside of the abandoned warehouse did little to
ease my mind. There was just enough illumination from the moon and from the
bonfire outside to give the place a spooky, surrealistic feel. Our footsteps
echoed noisily in there. From the ceiling entire civilizations of cobwebs
were growing. I could hear the chirping and scuttering of what I suspected
were rats. The smell was damp and corrupt.
There were steel support beams rising from the concrete floor to the ceiling.
It was to the backside of one of these that Charlie led me. On the ground
next to it was a portable chemical toilet of the sort that is used by
campers. It gave off a faint, lemony smell.
"Laura brings this to all the parties here." Charlie explained as I
frantically pushed my shorts and panties down and sat on the cold toilet
seat. I found it was very low to the ground, causing me to squat much more
than at a normal toilet. But I was beyond caring about such things as I
released a torrent.
Charlie stood before me as I peed, smiling, making me feel both uncomfortable
and a little horny at the same time. I could not help but remember what had
happened the last time my vagina was exposed to her.
"You really DID have to go." She said softly as I finished up and wiped myself
with the napkins.
I stood up and started to pull my shorts back over my nakedness. Charlie
stepped forward, her hand dropping down and pushing mine back down, her chest
pushing against mine. I felt a shiver of excitement at the contact. With my
crotch still exposed she put her face forward and touched her soft lips to
mine. Her tongue flitted between my teeth, teasing the tip of my tongue.
I pulled back a little, turned on but all-too cognizant of where we were and
the fact that other people were just a few yards away. "Charlie, we can't..."
"Shhh." She whispered, putting a finger to my lips.
Without another word she sank to her knees before me. I felt her hands on my
bare thighs and a moment later her tongue was pushing its way between my pussy
lips. I felt powerful tingles running up and down my spine as she fucked me
with her tongue and lapped at my juices. Her hands began squeezing my ass
cheeks, kneading them. I felt my breathing quicken, my nipples hardening. My
knees trembled.
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