MeatLocker

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three

Jenny closed her phone. Despite the bravo, she had reservations about the job. It was true: Technically, she wasn’t a nurse. God, she could barely get through the nurse’s aid program at the college.

Same with the journalism course, the year before that. She had managed to graduate, but only through some last minute maneuvering. And the resulting rumors, centering on her clandestine meeting with the journalism professor, had almost cost her the certificate.

The rumors had been essentially true, though she had never slept with the man; it hadn’t been necessary. And it had been her English teacher, not her journalism professor. Not that it mattered much, either way.

Jenny had sat opposite his desk one morning and watched him shuffle through her papers. She had come to him because she needed his blessing. If she could only convince him to change her C- in English to a C+ she would have the extra credit and would graduate, if only by the skin of her teeth.

He squirmed and cleared his throat. “It would appear that you haven’t maintained a satisfactory grade average in the past two years. Have you thought about your future?”

Jenny was thinking about his future. His very immediate future.

He was a man of about sixty and had probably been fairly decent in his youth. But he had gained a few unnecessary pounds, looked unkempt, and in need of a good wash. He was married, or at least he wore the ring, but what wife would allow him out of the house in the morning without a shower, and wearing a dirty shirt. And a rumpled suit. No matter. Jenny could still be nice to him.

“No,” Jenny said truthfully, “I haven’t thought about it. Just figured something would come along.”

He sighed, rather sadly, Jenny thought, and he looked up to ponder her face.

“Is there anything you can do?” Jenny pleaded. And crossed her legs.

“Ahh...” He blushed deeply. In one brief moment of forbidden exaltation, he had seen clear up her skirt; marveled at the sight of slick marble thigh-muscle.

Jenny couldn’t suppress the smile. She was no stranger to the effect she held over older men. Her first awareness had come from close quarters: her boyfriend’s father.

She was in her teens, her body just starting to flourish; the anguishing mid-season bloom. The transition from pubescence to fertility. She could clearly recall the Saturday morning she had stopped by her boyfriend’s house. It had been summer and she had slipped on a pair of short-shorts; not to be sexy, but to be comfortable. The sun was warm. The shorts had fit her last year, but her little bottom had rounded out. And her boyfriend’s father had noticed.

His look gave her a tightness about the chest and an odd tingling sensation low down, in a spot where she wouldn’t dare to tell her mother. Jenny had caught him looking at her legs and he was slow to turn away. But there was something more. A look about his face. For just an instant, he had the hung look of a hungry dog. It had scared her a little, but more, it had opened up a slew of unanswered questions: He had clearly been interested in something, but what? Why was he looking at her bum? Did he know he had made her feel all queer inside? Why had he flushed with guilt before turning away? And why did she feel it was all her fault?

By the time she was eighteen, Jenny had resolved all of those questions, and many more. She had come to terms with the notion that older men lusted after her body. Especially the ones that, when younger, had been successful slayers of woman’s hearts. Even in advanced years, those were the men who still remembered the resilience of a muscled thigh, the feel of a smooth firm bottom, the press of hard n*****s atop pert young breasts. They were the ones who longed for opportunities that were now remote and unattainable.

But just because they were older didn’t preclude them from Jenny’s radar. Older men were more fun. And easy to manipulate. They knew how to entertain, and made better, more intelligent conversation. Not to mention the money and the cars. She found she could always get a lift downtown with the neighbor. He was retired and always available for a pair of heels and a short skirt. He would drive, and admire her legs. She would smile, c**k a leg and let her knees drift apart. And there had been others. Many others. But they remained a mere diversion to her busy schedule of younger bucks who could better satisfy her lusty impulses.

“I don’t see how I can help you,” her English teacher said, closing the file.

“Please. I’m sure there’s a way, if you think a moment. And I would be ever so grateful.”

He looked down at her file once again, drummed on it with his fingers. “You are a very attractive girl.” He kept his eyes lowered.

“Yes. I know.”

She wore a light cotton blouse. It was white and she wore it with the three top buttons loose. He could see the outline of her bra through the fabric; one of those half bras, that pushed lush goodness up into the opening. When she leaned forward to study his eyes, he felt the earth shift; thought of a ground swell. Her n*****s had to be right there, so close.

“You like to look, don’t you? I’m just a young girl but you can’t help yourself. I understand. Really I do.”

That’s all he needed to know. She had given him permission. He slowly got up, came around the end of the desk and stood behind her chair.

She couldn’t see him, but she could hear his breathing, more like panting; low but steady. Forced control. A technique to steady the nerves. He was standing so close, hovering really. Jenny could feel his presence hanging over her like heavy, stagnant air. She knew he was looking down her blouse.

And then she heard the faintest click.

Metal on metal.

She heard it again, more distinct. And again. He was easing his zipper down. Slowly. Like he was afraid the sound might startle her into reality. That she might bolt to her feet, scream, and charge out; slamming the door closed, to his office, and on his job. But she didn’t move. She remained perfectly still. Waiting. And the only sound was the steady, primeval beat: Skin on skin. Hand on p***s.

He was looking down the front of her blouse and m**********g.

Jenny smiled and thought where might be the best place to hang her diploma. Above her computer desk would be good. She could admire it with satisfaction as she fielded all the telephone calls from newspaper editors, offering her fascinating jobs in exciting new cities; all around the country.

She settled into her chair and relaxed her knees. The motion eased her skirt up along her thighs, giving him a little something extra. The beat had turned to rhythmic slapping, quicker, wilder, and his breath came in forcible grunts. The heat was rising; the pressure consuming him. Jenny was ready to push him over the brink. She quickly slipped the rest of the buttons, right to her navel. She hooked the cups of her bra with her fingers and tumbled her breasts free. He gasped as the twins jumped out to play. He saw the n*****s, brown and extended, and the puffy aureoles.

Jenny was aware of him bending over her shoulder. “Give me your panties,” he gasped. And she obliged him, pulling her skirt the rest of the way up until it was about her hips. Lifting her bottom, she raked the bikini briefs from where they nestled her crotch and pushed them down. He staggered at the sight of the paunchy rolls of flesh beneath lush pubic hairs. He saw the devilish lips, pouting from between her open legs. His knees went weak and he leaned in.

Jenny felt the splatter sweep the back of her head. “Jesus!”

He had c*m in her hair. Jenny was startled and made to get to her feet, but his hand came down, firmly onto her shoulder. Jenny looked and found his fingers were smeared in semen; the stuff was soaking into her shirt.

Jenny graduated. She got her certificate. She spent fifty dollars to have it professionally framed and she hung it above her computer desk. But the telephone had remained stubbornly silent. She sent resumes to every major daily in the country and sadly, there was little to show for it. With misgivings, she focused on the weeklies. There seemed to be a thousand of them.

She gave up after one hundred and forty-two. To hell with it! It was the middle of July and she packed her bags and left for the beach. After three days in the sun, she met an old guy with a beach house, and she moved in.

The s*x was mediocre, at first, and then it got worse. But the accommodations were well appointed and the price was right. Plus the old darling paid for all the booze; no mean accomplishment with Jenny aboard. Her days were spent tanning topless; her evenings, on his impressive computer with high-speed internet.

With a fruitless year staring her in the face, Jenny started thinking. She had a choice: Spend a chilly winter on the beach with a man who was so boring it made her teeth hurt and was only interested in her ability to orally gratify him at bedtime, or get on back to school. She had been watching old re-runs of General Hospital and so chose nursing. She finagled a student loan and enrolled online.

Jenny was at Dr. McAllister’s office door at precisely 8:28 on Monday morning. She had driven up the day before and got herself settled into a cheap motel. Jenny used her well-worn plastic to secure a room. It had cable and the TV worked. She had checked first, just to be sure.

She spent the afternoon driving around the hills of Rosedale and found she liked the rural community. It was a sizable university town with parks and cafes lining the leafy streets: laid back, but with enough young people to make it interesting. She picked up a small pizza and a bottle of cheap white wine and, back in her motel room, she locked the door and checked the blinds. Then she stripped off and turned on the set. She settled onto the bed, laying on her tummy, head propped up on hands and elbows, with her legs sprawled. She liked to feel the coolness there. In between. At home, Peter always spoiled it. He thought her opened legs were an invitation and he would push his d**k in. She hated that, but he always paid for the pizza so she figured he deserved a little something.

If this job works out, I’m going to dump Peter, she thought. All he wants to do is f**k in front of the television.

Jenny was surprised to see that Dr. McAllister was out of uniform. “Director’s meeting at ten,” Dr. McAllister said, rising to her feet and extending a hand. She was wearing a dove-gray business suit; conservative cut. The skirt was slightly above the knee and the jacket had modest lapels and a slight flair at the hips. She wore it over a sheer charcoal blouse and beneath that, a black lace camisole. When Dr. McAllister leaned forward to grasp Jenny’s hand, one breast snuggled up against the other: as unrestricted as the Canadian border, and looking just as friendly.

“The old fuddy-duddies like to get together once in awhile so I can tell them how much money I’ve made for them. They like to check out their assets.” Dr. McAllister smiled and c****d a hip. She had a knack for looking as sexy as hell without it coming off as being cheap. Jenny’s linen jacket suddenly felt like an old cardigan; maybe one with a hole in the elbow. When Dr. McAllister turned to take her seat, Jenny watched her breasts roam back, front and center. There was a hint of a heavy erect n****e pushing at the lace. Jenny wondered what it was like, being a lesbian.

“Matty. Can you join us? Jenny is here for her fitting,” Dr. McAllister said into her telephone.

Matty whirled through the door a moment later, like she had more important things on her mind, nodded pleasantly to Jenny, but, setting her canvas bag down, she went straight to Dr. McAllister. Matty wore a dressmaker’s smock and her hair was tied up in a bun. No pencil. She wore half-spectacles at the end of her nose. She gave a quick appraisal of Dr. McAllister’s appearance, adjusted the lapels of her jacket and, reaching down, fastened Dr. McAllister’s jacket button. Then she closely examined the seam at Dr. McAllister’s shoulder. Jenny realized that the woman was inspecting her own craftsmanship.

“I have the same Shetland wool, but in a burgundy. It would look smashing with your hair.”

“But can I afford it?” Dr. McAllister said.

Matty took a step back, hand to her breast. “Just trying to help, my dear. You look such a frump in gray.”

Dr. McAllister took the slight in stride. “Okay, we’ll talk later, but this is about Jenny. She needs a uniform.”

“Same as the others?” Matty asked, running her eyes along the line of Jenny’s hip.

“Of course, same as the others.”

Matty released a sigh of exasperation. “I wish you’d let me do more for these girls. You hire the most beautiful women and then dress them in drab white. Let me dash something off for this poor creature. Something in chartreuse, maybe, with a real neckline and a daring vent up the side. This lovely child deserves better than Florence Nightingale.”

“Never mind the damned vents. Our standard uniform, please. And don’t make it too tight. That last girl you did needed breast reduction surgery. She was spilling out all over the place. The patients were dropping stuff all over my floors, just to watch her bend over. They were calling her Miss n****e-Slip, for god’s sake.”

“Oh deary, let’s have a look then,” Matty resigned from the confrontation gracefully and pulled a measuring tape and a booklet from her canvas bag. “Arms up,” she commanded and ran the tape around Jenny’s waist. “Oh, a nice slim one,” she commented and made a notation in her booklet. “Please remove your jacket.”