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From: anais ninja <anais_ninja@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Exile - Chapter One - Memory Protect (Mf tg teen oral drugs reluc)
Date: Wed,  5 Feb 2003 07:10:03 -0500
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Exile
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html 

 
Note:  This is my story.  The names and details have been changed to
protect the privacy of those involved.  Some of this account has
been reconstructed from memory, but most of it has been based on a
journal I kept during these years. 
 
This is a sequel to _Wanderings_, which can be found on my asstr-mirror.org
site: 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/wander/index.html 


                                  * * * 


        "When I write, I can shake off all my cares." - Anne Frank


                                  * * *


Chapter One - Memory Protect  (Mf tg teen oral drugs reluc)


November 1981


It was just beginning to snow again when the sedan pulled up to the 
curb.  The window rolled down with an electric moan, and even across
the sidewalk I could feel the heater.  The driver looked over and
beckoned me with a tilt of the head, but I had already started
crossing the sidewalk.  I knew why he'd pulled over.

"Got the time?" I asked him as I leaned through the window.  I'd
been standing in the cold for nearly an hour; I would have done him
for just ten minutes in his overheated car.

"Yeah," he said, taking a closer look at me.  The electric door
latch unlocked with a thump and I climbed into the passenger seat. 
I got a brief glimpse of him when I opened the door: fiftyish,
balding, overweight, but with a neatly trimmed beard and wearing a
nice suit.  The car smelled of cologne and cigarettes, not at all
unpleasant compared to some of the cars I'd been in over the past
few months. 

"How old are you?" he asked.

"How old do you think I am?"

"Sixteen?"

"Yup," I said.  I was really fourteen, but I'd learned the customer
was always right.

He grunted, sort of a cross between a "huh" and a clearing of the 
throat, and then shifted in his seat.  I knew the next thing out of
his mouth would be "I've got a daughter your age".

"I've got a daughter your age," he said.  The look in his eyes said
that this was worth at least an extra $25, even for a hand job.

"Drive," I said.  "Cops're gonna be along any second."

He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

"Where?" he said.

"What do you want?"  I knew plenty of quiet alleys and parking lots,
good enough for a BJ or a quick jack, but if he wanted anything more
we'd have to go to the rooming house on Chandler Street.  I had a
deal with the owner there.

"Just um...just a...," he stammered.

"Head?"

"Yeah."

"Sixty.  Up front."

"Okay," he said.

"Take the next right, then a left on Thayer Street.  There's a
parking lot on the left, about halfway down the block."

Five minutes later we pulled into the unpaved lot, shielded from the
brooding row of lofts by a van.  Over the purr of the car's engine I
could hear a band rehearsing somewhere.

"Here," he said, pulling three $20 bills from his wallet.

"Push the seat back," I said.  He reached down between the seat and
the door and toggled an unseen switch.  The front seat eased away
from the dashboard with an electric whine.

"What's your name?" he asked as he undid his belt and trousers.

"Lita," I said, lying.  My friend Cami told me never to use my own
name.  I'd chosen the name of a guitar player I liked, Lita Ford
from the Runaways.

"Rita?"

"No, Lita."

"Lolita?"

"Close enough," I said, reaching between his legs to fish his penis
out of his boxer shorts.  As I kneaded his half-erection he cupped
my breasts through my sweater, gently squeezing them.  It was a
gesture purely for his own benefit; I felt his cock growing in my
fingers as he fondled my tits.  When he was hard I leaned over into
his lap and took him in my mouth.  He smelled a bit funky -- sweaty,
musky, a middle-aged man's smell -- but I'd smelled worse.  His cock
tasted faintly of urine but, again, I'd tasted worse.  As I began to
suck him I felt his hand roaming under my skirt, coming to rest on
my bottom. 

"Suck me," he muttered under his breath, "Suck it.  Suck that cock, 
baby.  Yeah, suck me..."  He was a Talker.  Some Talkers gave me the
creeps, especially when they'd start to pretend I was someone they
knew, a friend or co-worker for instance.  I'd wonder what movie was
playing inside their heads.  A snuff film, perhaps?

But most Talkers were benign, content to spin their little narrative
while I serviced them, muttering a play-by-play they could recall
later while they furtively jerked off in the office or at home. 
Nearly half the men I'd pleasured had been Talkers to some degree,
from those who'd repeat "Aw, yeah" incessantly to men who referred
to "that cock" and "those balls" with such detachment that it seemed
as if their genitals were entities separate from their bodies.

This guy was somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, grunting and 
sighing when I bathed his cock with my tongue, and repeating "suck
me" while my head bobbed in his lap.  His penis was circumcised,
stubby and thick, with a hard shaft and spongy head that barely
reached the back of my throat.

The squeaking of the seat springs began to get louder; I knew he was
getting close.  His hand was now inside my panties, cupping my ass,
and his monologue had tapered off into heavy breathing punctuated by
the occasional "suck".  As I briskly sucked him I could feel his
thighs tensing and relaxing through his trousers, his belly heaving,
his penis twitching in my mouth.  Suddenly he groaned and tightened
his grip on my ass as the first spurt of semen shot from his cock. 
It was cloyingly sweet, something I hadn't expected, but there was
no way I could spit it out.  I choked back his second and third
spurt, swallowing hard.  He relaxed, sinking back into the car seat
and releasing his grip on my ass as he let out a deep breath.

I released his softening penis from my mouth and sat up, brushing a 
strand of blonde hair from my face.  Flipping down the visor, I
checked my makeup in the vanity mirror.  

"Cigarette?"  He flipped open the pack and offered me one.

"Thanks."  I finished reapplying my lipstick and took a cigarette, 
letting him light it for me.

"Can I give you a lift back downtown?"

"No thanks.  Just drop me at the corner."


                                  * * *


The hiss of steam heat and the smell of boiled cabbage greeted me as
I walked into the foyer.  I trudged down the flight of stairs that
led to the basement and let myself into the apartment.  The smell of
gumbo simmering on the stove overpowered the neighbor's cabbage.  I
shrugged off my coat and hung it up in the closet.

Cami was stretched out on the living room couch, gazing at the 
television from under hooded eyes, half of an unlit joint in her
hand.  When she saw me come in she folded her legs, making room for
me on the couch.

"Delia's sleeping," she said, bringing the joint to her lips and 
fumbling with a pack of matches.

"She working tonight?" I asked, fishing in my bag for my lighter.  I
handed it to her, tugging at her legs and pulling them on to my lap.
 She was wearing a short yellow silk kimono that set off her milk 
chocolate complexion.

"Two shows," Cami replied, passing the joint.  "You have dinner
yet?" 

"Nothing but coffee and cum since breakfast."

"Dee made gumbo."

"I know.  Smells good."  I passed the joint back to her and kicked
off my boots, exhaling a cloud of pot smoke that glowed blue in the
light of the television.  I settled back into the plush cushions of
the old couch, absentmindedly caressing Cami's smooth legs.  She
must have just shaved and moisturized; her skin felt as smooth as
her silk kimono. 

"Mmmm...that feels good, Annie," she whispered.  I leaned over and
laid my head on her hip as my caresses progressed up her thigh.  As
Cami began to gently stroke my hair, I parted her kimono and exposed
her beautiful cock, half-hard and freshly shaved.  I pursed my lips
and lightly blew on it, making it stir and twitch between her
shapely thighs.  Cami had only been on hormones for a few months;
her cock and balls hadn't atrophied like Delia's.  And unlike Delia,
who looked to be between thirty and fifty depending on her makeup,
Cami was sixteen.  Despite her delicate facial features and budding
breasts, she still had a teenaged boy's libido.  Erect early, erect
often. 

And erect she was.  She softly sighed as I parted my lips and let
her cock enter my mouth.  Cami tasted clean, a trace of soap and
skin cream on her shaft.  Unlike the previous nine blowjobs I'd
given that day, six in cars, two in the hallways of buildings, and
one in an alley, this one was done slowly, carefully, lovingly.  

Cami parted her legs slightly, letting me roll over on my belly
between them.  Propping myself up on my elbows, I held her shaft
with one hand and her balls with the other, guiding her spear back
between my lips.  Cami began to slowly rock her hips in time with
the motion of my head between her legs.  Her hardness tensed and her
balls twitched every time I swirled my tongue over her shaft.  I
looked up and watched her hooded eyes begin to close and her
expression begin to slacken as whatever pills she took before I got
home began to take effect.  I sucked her faster, hoping to make her
come before she passed out. 

Cami's eyes opened again and she smiled at me as she tugged at my 
shoulder, pulling me up from between her legs.  I released her 
glistening cock, letting it flop against her thigh.  Cami reached
for the zipper in back of my skirt, pulling it down.  I wriggled my
hips, letting the skirt fall around my knees before stepping out of
it.  Skinning off my panties, I knelt over Cami's reclining form,
reaching for her hardness and guiding it inside me.

As I drew Cami's cock inside me I could hear Delia waking from her
nap, padding from her bedroom to the bathroom.  The door closed as I
pulled my sweater over my head, water running while Cami fumbled
with the clasp of my ratty old bra, toilet flushing as Cami's hands
found my breasts, fingers pinching my nipples as our hips ground
together and apart.  As our pace grew faster I could hear the
bathroom door open again, Delia's footsteps getting closer, each
step out of time with our thrusts. 

"Don't be staining my couch, girlie" Delia said, throwing a towel 
between me and Cami.  She stood next to us, her long red silk robe
tied loosely at the waist with a thin sash.

"No, ma'am," Cami said.  She stopped thrusting inside me and lifted
her hips from the couch, sliding the towel under her ass before
falling back into the cushions.  She resumed her rhythm, our hips
rocking against each other.  I leaned over and kissed her, first on
her forehead, then on her nose, then on her full lips, teasing her
tongue out with my own.  I could hear Delia pawing through my purse.

"It's in my coat, Delia," I said, breaking off my kiss.  "The
money's in my coat."

"Uh huh," she muttered, padding off to the closet to get my coat. 
She returned with it a moment later and set herself down in one of
the overstuffed chairs next to the couch, watching us fuck while she
rummaged through my pockets.  She pulled out the wad of cash and
counted it as I turned my attention back to Cami, who was suckling
my breasts, lightly biting my nipples while I rode her hardness.

"You need a new bra," Delia said, peeling a few bills off of the
cash I'd brought home and placing them on the coffee table.  Her
robe opened slightly when she stuffed the rest of the money in the
pocket, revealing her half-hard penis and small, hairless balls.  As
I leaned over and kissed her smooth ebony belly, Delia opened her
robe a bit more, her cock stirring slightly as I gently kissed it. 
I took her in my mouth as I rode Cami's hardness, feeling her expand
slightly but never really get as stiff as the cock I had mounted. 
Delia sighed and stroked my hair as I sucked her.

This wasn't going to be one of those rare occasions when I could
make Delia come, filling my mouth with her thin semen despite her
years of hormone treatments.  That didn't mean that she couldn't
enjoy my blowjobs, though.  I had the feeling that this was the
reason she let me stay with her and Cami, besides the money I
brought home and the meals I sometimes cooked.  Every so often I'd
manage to suck her just right, to make her body shake, to make her
come.  Afterwards she'd hold me in her arms and rock me like a baby
until we fell asleep. 

This wasn't going to be one of those times.  Cami was close to
coming; I could feel her stiffen inside me, her hips rising off the
couch and lifting me up as she buried herself inside me.  A
particularly deep stroke began to set me off, making me release
Delia's penis with a sharp gasp.  She stepped back and began to
stroke her glistening spear as she watched us fuck on her couch.

"Coming," Cami gasped, her cock throbbing inside me, pulsing as a
warm feeling spread through my pussy.  She grabbed my cheeks and
pulled me against her hips, our rhythm slowing and finally stopping.
 I was close to coming and I rocked my hips a few times in an effort
to feel the friction of Cami's softening shaft against my clit.

"Finish me," I whispered in her ear.  I didn't need to say it; Cami 
loved to lick her own cream from my sloppy sex.  Delia watched as we
changed positions, making sure we didn't stain the precious
upholstery on her thirty-year-old couch.  Cami was careful to keep
the towel under my dripping pussy as she laid me back on the couch
and ducked her head between my thighs.  I wondered if I'd come
before the pills kicked in; more than once Cami had passed out while
we'd made love.  This time she managed to stay awake, licking me
clean and lashing my clit until I came.  I tugged on her shoulder to
let her know I'd had enough.  Cami looked up at me and smiled, her
eyelids heavy and half-closed. 

As Delia padded back to her bedroom to get dressed and Cami lay back
on the couch to doze off, I headed to the bathroom and filled the
tub with hot water and bath oil.  A few minutes later I was
stretched out in the old cast iron tub, letting the warm water chase
the lingering chill from my bones, a chill from another day spent on
the street sucking and fucking strangers for money.

It seemed as if every moment I spent alone I'd begin to yearn for
the life I had lost: the house in Maine, Ramon and the boys, and
Julia, dear Julia.  It had been not quite a year but it seemed like
a decade ago.  As always, my eyes began to well up with tears.  I
reached for a washcloth and daubed them away.


                                  * * *


December 1980


Despite all my fears and worries about Ramon, Del, and Paco heading
out on to the stormy Gulf of Maine in the fishing boat, it was
actually a highway accident that took them away from me, a collision
with a tractor-trailer carrying a load of timber.  Ramon and Del
were killed instantly.  Paco, who was riding in the back of the van,
bled to death before the ambulance could arrive.  Less than an hour
after the funeral, I was in the custody of the Maine Bureau of Child
and Family Services. 

I was placed in a foster home in Portland, sharing a room with
Denise, a sixteen-year-old chain smoking heroin addict who stole
whatever she could from me, even clothes that had no chance of ever
fitting her.  Our foster parents were a crusty old couple in their
sixties; he was retired from the paper mill and drank all the time. 
His wife cleaned houses part of the time and looked after us the
rest.  Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard lived off of the money they received
from the state for looking after six foster kids crammed into three
tiny bedrooms. 

I thought I'd only spend a couple of weeks here, as Julia was 
petitioning the state to have me released into her custody.  Numb
from the sudden loss of my papi and stepbrothers, living with Julia
was all that I had to look forward to.  But that couple of weeks
stretched into a month and more, and on a blustery day the week
before Christmas, I received news from a social worker that Julia
had suffered a sudden stroke.

Julia's family came up to arrange for her care.  Whether they were
aware of our relationship or not, I do not know.  Either way, I was
shunned, and not allowed to visit Julia in the hospital.  She passed
away three weeks later.  I never had a chance to see her or tell her
how much I loved her.


                                  * * *


Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, they did.  Mr.
Hubbard began to take a special interest in me.  It started with the
occasional grope in the close confines of the kitchen, escalating to
a forced kiss in the upstairs bathroom.  His breath was foul from
Lucky Strikes and cheap whiskey, and the grey stubble on his face
was painfully scratchy.  I could feel him press his half-hard cock
against my thigh as he groped me and slobbered on my lips.  The
sound of footsteps in the hall forced him to break off his clumsy
embrace.  Mr. Hubbard left the bathroom in a hurry.

The next night he did it again, cornering me in the bathroom and
groping me.  When he tried to part my lips with his foul tongue, I
pushed him away as hard as I could.  Mr. Hubbard was much stronger
than me, and he kept me in his grip, forcing his knee between my
thighs.  I tried to squirm away but he wrestled me to the tile
floor, pinning me against a threadbare bathmat with his body.

"Wassa matter?  You a virgin?" he hissed.  I just nodded, wishing he
would go away.  His grip relaxed and he slowly eased off of me.  He
drew up to his knees and unzipped his trousers, fishing his cock
from his torn boxer shorts.  His half-limp penis dangled from a nest
of grey pubes.

"I'll get that cherry later.  Right now you gonna suck it, Amy," he 
said.

"Annie."  He didn't even know my name.

"What?"

"My name is Annie," I said.

"Who cares."  He put his hands on his hips.  His gnarly pink worm 
stirred.  I sat up and leaned into his crotch, taking his cock in my
hands and drawing back the foreskin.  There was a rank, musty smell 
coming from his boxers, but I just held my breath as I took him into
my mouth.  He hardened quickly.

I began to suck him, mechanically, efficiently, trying to perform
the act as quickly as possible.  Mr. Hubbard unbelted his pants and
let them fall around his knees.  His hips began to move to my
rhythm, forcing his cock deeper into my mouth.  It was neither long
nor thick, but it had a fat, bulbous head that dribbled thin drops
of precum. 

"Take your hand off it," he whispered.  I'd been stroking his shaft,
sliding his foreskin back and forth.  I did that to make him come 
faster, but it also kept him from going too deep.  Reluctantly, I 
loosened my grip on his cock and he brushed my hand away.  Mr.
Hubbard grabbed the back of my head and began to force his penis
down my throat.  His fat cockhead battered the back of my mouth,
cutting off my breathing and triggering my gag reflex.  I nearly bit
him as I began to retch, forcing him to withdraw momentarily.  

As I was catching my breath, I felt something in Mr. Hubbard's
loosened trousers, something square, something familiar.  As I
leaned back into his crotch and let him fuck my face again, my
fingers slowly probed for the pocket.  Looking up, I saw his eyes
were closed, his breathing heavy, his thoughts were elsewhere.  My
fingers suddenly found the object in his pants: a wad of cash. 
Keeping my eyes on his slackened face, and trying desperately not to
gag, I slowly eased the money from his pocket and slipped it under
the edge of the bathmat. 

Mr. Hubbard opened his eyes and looked down, a crooked smile forming
on his thin lips.  His creaking hips began to speed up and I felt
his cock begin to twitch in my mouth.  Even so, the first spurts of
his semen caught me by surprise, a bitter, thin liquid hitting the
back of my throat.  I suppressed the urge to retch and spit it out,
fearing his reaction.  I honestly thought that I wasn't going to
leave that bathroom alive, that he'd strangle me or drown me in the
tub.  Choking down his thin seed, I went limp on the floor.

Mr. Hubbard stuffed his flaccid cock back into his shorts and pulled
up his trousers.  Without a word, he stood up and left.  I leaned
over the sink, rinsing out my mouth for a few minutes before
reaching under the bathmat for the money.  I looked at the roll of
bills; mostly tens and twenties, maybe a couple of hundred bucks.  I
wondered when he'd realize it was missing.

I left the bathroom, hiding the wad in my towel, and returned to my 
room.  Fortunately, Denise wasn't there.  I counted the money, $352,
and hid it in the only secret place I had, behind the dusty old
radiator next to my bed.  Setting my face into an expressionless
mask, I went down to the kitchen for something to drink.  Rinsing
with water hadn't helped, and I needed to get the taste of Mr.
Hubbard's bitter spunk out of my mouth.  He was down there, sitting
at the table, watching Mrs. Hubbard wash dishes while he drank his
whiskey.  He didn't even look up at me; he just sat there, hunched
over his ashtray and his glass. 

I had already made my mind up to run away, somewhere, anywhere. 
There was a problem, though.  Mr. Hubbard's perch in the kitchen
gave him a good view of the front door, and the only other way out
of the house was through the basement.  But the stairs to the
basement ran from that very kitchen.  My only hope was to wait until
they went to sleep, but Mr. Hubbard regularly stayed up late,
watching television from under a haze of cigarette smoke.  By the
time he went to bed, I'd be virtually locked in my bedroom with
Denise.  Back in my room, I stuffed some clothes into a grocery bag
and hid the bundle under my bed. 

By the time "lights out" rolled around, Denise was already asleep. 
I lay in bed fully clothed, with the covers pulled up to my neck, 
listening for Mr. Hubbard's footsteps on the creaky stairs.  After 
hearing his bedroom door close, I waited fifteen minutes before
easing out of bed.  I retrieved the cash from its hiding place and
pulled my bag of clothes from under the bed.  Denise was quietly
snoring as I sneaked out of the room, across the hall, and down the
stairs.  The house was eerily quiet and dark as I left it for the
last time. 

I walked for nearly an hour in a light snow, heading for the bus 
station.  Portland was deserted.  Even the bars were closed.  The
bus station was empty except for a janitor mopping the floor.  He
looked up at me for a moment and went back to his task.  There was
no one at the ticket counter, just a sign that read "Open at 6AM". 
That was three hours away.  

I grabbed a bus schedule and ducked into the ladies room.  In the 
privacy of a stall, I read the schedule.  The first bus wasn't until
6:15, and that one went to Bangor.  I'd never been there and I
didn't know anyone in Bangor.  There was a 6:30 bus to Boston,
though.  I'd been there a few times with Julia.  I tried to remember
where Margaret's mother's shop was located.  It wasn't too far from
that hotel Julia liked, but I didn't know exactly where that was,
either.  It seemed so long ago.  I closed my eyes and leaned against
the side of the stall, trying to get a little sleep.

The sound of the bathroom door opening woke me up.  I grabbed my bag
and hustled out of the stall, surprising the janitor as he wiped the
sink.  It was just after six, and the ticket counter was already
open.  A middle-aged woman sat behind it, sipping coffee.  I bought
a ticket to Boston and went to wait for the bus among the rows of
plastic seats. 


                                  * * *


Boston was like I'd never seen it before, shrouded in snow, shadowy
in the light of a weak grey dawn.  The bus creeped through the slick
streets, stuck in the morning traffic.  By the time we reached the 
Greyhound station, I'd remembered the name of the hotel and found it
on a map in the bus station.  Ritz-Carlton.  It wasn't too far, just
a couple of blocks away.  I walked there, partly to get my bearings,
partly because I wanted to see it once more.  Julia and I had made
love there; it seemed like a sacred place to me.

Standing in front of the Ritz, I looked across the park towards
Beacon Hill.  Julia and I once went to dine at the home of some
friends of hers who lived there, the Cabots.  In started walking in
the other direction, crossing the sunken highway and into a
neighborhood of brownstones and storefronts.  Just past the police
station I entered a familiar block, a row of brick buildings with
stores just below street level.  My heart leaped when I saw the sign
for Shelly's store, in the middle of the block.

The windows were covered in taped-up newspaper.  A "closed" sign
hung in the door.  I looked through the window where a corner of
paper had curled back.  The store was empty except for the counters,
also empty but for a single paper cup of coffee, half-full.  My
heart sank. 

I sat in a donut shop for the next hour, picking at a muffin and
trying to resist the urge to cry.  Running away seemed like a bad
idea now, and I mulled over whether I should go back to the foster
home.  I could just take a bus back that day and Mr. Hubbard would
probably never notice I'd been gone.  Then I remembered the bitter
taste of his cum.  I took a gulp of coffee to wash down the memory.

I walked back to the hotel and then down the long street next to it,
where Julia and I had lunched and gone shopping.  I stopped at every
store on Newbury Street, looking in each window and lingering over
the ones where Julia and I had been.  Walking down one side and back
up the other, I  arrived back at the Ritz just as people began to
leave work for the day.

I followed a throng of well-dressed men and women and over to Beacon
Hill and spent the next hour looking for the Cabots' home.  A
servant answered the door and told me that the Cabots were out of
town for the winter.  She closed the door in my face and I began to
walk back to the bus station.  There was a fast food place next to
the station, so I bought a burger and tried to figure out what to
do. 

I couldn't remember where Brad's house was; all I knew was that it
had been about a half hour away by car.  Nor could I remember the
name of that law firm Julia had used, the one that was handling the
petition for guardianship.   After eating, I checked the bus
schedule.  The last one back to Maine was at 11:30 PM.  I put my
clothes in a locker and headed back out to the street, wandering
through Back Bay.  I found the big old library and went inside,
finding a quiet, warm corner where I could cry. 

I must have dozed off for a couple of hours, waking up to the sound
of someone clearing his throat.  A bearded young man in a tweed suit
leaned over and shook my shoulder.

"You can't sleep here," he said.

"Okay.  I'll go."

"You can stay if you like, you just can't sleep," the man said.  He
had a concerned expression.

"Oh.  okay."

"Is there anything I can do for you?  You look lost."

"No, I'm all right.  I'm supposed to meet someone," I said.

"We close in an hour.  You're welcome to stay until then," he said. 
He straightened up and left, pushing a cart of books down one of the
rows of shelves.

I left a few minutes later.  It was almost ten at night and I
started walking back to the bus station.  I made up my mind to take
the last bus back.

As I rounded a corner near the station, I noticed that the streets
were empty except for a few women standing here and there, smoking
cigarettes and beckoning to passing cars.  As I approached the
station, one of the cars slowed down and pulled over to the curb
near me.  An electric window rolled down and a man called out to me
from inside the car.  I stopped and turned, not quite hearing what
he was saying. 

"Excuse me?"

"I said 'What's up?'," the driver barked.  He was heavy-set, middle 
aged, and balding.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Wanna take a ride?"  I shook my head and continued walking as he
drove off, slowly cruising the remainder of the block.

"Fuck you, bitch."  A bleach-blonde woman with a sharp nose was
suddenly in my face.  She wore a white leather jacket, short red
skirt, fishnets, and boots.

"What?"

"Fuck you.  This is my street.  You don't fucking work my street,
you fucking cunt."  She punctuated this with a pop of her chewing
gum. 

"I'm not working," I said, still unclear about what was happening
here. 

"Don't fucking lie to me, cunt," she hissed, shoving me with both
hands.  I fell back to the sidewalk.  "I'll fucking cut you."

As she reached into her pocket I hurried to my feet and ran, tears 
streaming down my cheeks.  I kept going, block after block, all the
way back to where Shelly's store had been.  I ran down the steps and
hid, hoping that I hadn't been chased, wishing that the store was
still here, that any minute now Shelly and Margaret would open that
door and invite me inside with a hug and a nice hot cup of tea.

I'd scraped my knee getting off the sidewalk back at the bus
station.  It began to sting, and I noticed that my tights were torn
and my knee was a little bloody.  I was pretty sure that I hadn't
been followed all the way here.  The problem was getting back to the
station for the last bus to Portland.  That prostitute -- I realized
what had happened there and how she thought I was working her turf
-- would probably still be there.  I didn't want another
confrontation. 

I spent some time in another donut shop; they seemed to be
everywhere in Boston.  The manager kicked me out after an hour, so I
wandered the streets again.  Even in this neighborhood there were
women and young men on certain corners, soliciting passing motorists
and sometimes driving off with them.  I steered clear of these
streets. 

There was a row of old mill buildings by an elevated highway.  A few
had lights on upstairs, not the fluorescence of a factory floor but
the warm incandescent glow of someone's home.  A door opened and I
could hear footsteps and conversation, laughter mingling with the
muffled sound of a band playing inside the building.  A couple of
people milled around on the sidewalk for a minute and then drove off
in a cargo van. 

They'd left the door ajar, so I went inside.  There was a large
tin-clad door with a heavy padlock and a sign that read "Wu Fong
Specialties".  I walked up a long flight of stairs, following the
sound of the band.  It came from behind another heavy door, this one
painted plain black.  The music stopped and I heard a lock turning. 
As the door opened, I ran to the end of the hall and ducked into a
small bathroom and locked myself in.  It was a tiny space with a
toilet and a sink, lit by a small bulb hanging from the tall
ceiling. 

Someone rattled the doorknob and I cleared my throat.  "Sorry," came
a voice from the other side of the door.  After I caught my breath,
I took off my torn tights and daubed at my scraped knee with a wet
paper towel.  It wasn't a bad bruise, but I was more upset over my
ruined tights.  They were keeping me warm.

I wanted to spend the night here.  It was warm and safe, but the
toilet seat was broken and I wouldn't be able to sleep like I had in
the Portland bus station.  The floor was disgusting, but a double
layer of paper towels made it nearly habitable.  I bunched up my
coat for a pillow and fell asleep.

 
                                  * * * 

 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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