The Misogynist Ch. 05

Cheryl got up and walked over and sat down on the chair. She wished that she was dead. She sat there and thought of Martin. She hated him. Why did he have to be right all the time? She'd show him. Turner loved her. He really honestly did. She just knew it.

The doorbell rang. Turner looked at Cheryl. "Go answer the door. I have to change pants."

Cheryl went to the door, opened it. The man who stood in front of her looked older, gruff, and foul. "Good evening. Are you here to see Turner?"

He looked down at the young woman. He leered at her breasts. He seemed to drool as he looked at her uniform. He coughed and sniffed. He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his sport coat. It left a slight smudge of snotty moisture. "Yes I am pretty lady. You must be Cheryl."

She didn't know quite what to say or do. She knew already this was going to be the worst night of her life. Just looking at this obviously licentious prurient old man, it made her skin crawl. She gulped. "Yes sir. Won't you come in?"

He gave her a lascivious smile. "Come in." he said. "Yes I'd love to come in."

She pretended not to understand the double meaning of his words. "Follow me please."

"I'd follow you anywhere." He said with a suggestive wink as he ogled her breasts again.

Turner came down the steps. "My what a pleasant scene." He looked at the older man. "Have you met our little hostess?"

The older man responded. "Yes, and I think she's adorable."

Turner looked at the older man. "Are you hungry, or would you like a drink first?"

The older man knew the real treat came after dinner. He didn't want to wait. "No let's eat."

For the next forty minutes it was Cheryl's responsibility to bring out the food, set the dishes, keep the water and wine glasses full, and just generally keep moving so both men could to enjoy her body. Cheryl did as Turner had instructed, she jiggled and wiggled at every opportunity.

With a minimalist bra her breasts gave the older man a real treat. She hated herself for what she was doing. The whole time she kept trying to put Martin's comments out of her mind, but one refrain wouldn't go away. Over and over it kept ringing in her ears, "He'll turn you into a whore. He'll turn you into a whore." That was exactly how she was starting to feel. But every time she told herself, only for tonight. Tomorrow things will be better. Tomorrow it will be just she and Turner. She believed that. She had to believe it.

Finally they got to the desserts, and then it was over. Turner stood and invited his guest into the living room. Cheryl followed along behind carrying a whiskey bottle and two glasses. The old man liked Scotch, an old man's drink. Cheryl reflected young men drank Bourbon, but the drink of the night was Scotch.

While the old man slowly eased himself into a lazy boy, Turner took up position on the sofa. Cheryl assumed her seat of subservience at Turners knees. She kept telling herself it was just for one night, but God it was degrading.

The old man started talking. "That's a fine piece of flesh you've got there Turner."

Turner took his right hand and fluffed her hair. "Yeah, I'm kind of proud of her."

"I take it she's only worn your colors."

Turner responded. "I'm her first. She answers only to me right now."

The old man looked her over like she was a piece of meat. "Has she any experience, in say, more sophisticated things?"

"No this one's still a novice."

Cheryl was amazed at the direction of the conversation. She wore no man's so-called colors. She wasn't a horse, and as far as being a novice she was, and she intended to stay a novice. One man, one woman, one way, that was her style. What did he mean she answers only to me right now? Right now what? The old man and Turner were talking like she was some whore, or some piece of meat. She was neither.

The old man said. "So she's limited."

Turner answered. "She's ready for something new tonight if you're inclined?"

The old man looked at Cheryl. He snapped his fingers. "Come here girl."

Cheryl couldn't believe it. She looked up at Turner with pleading eyes.

The old man spoke again. "Come here girl."

Turner grabbed her by the chin. "You heard him. He's waiting."

Cheryl softly whimpered. "Turner, please."

The old man spoke. "I thought you said she was ready."

Turner looked over at the man. "She is sir. Wait just a minute." He leaned down to Cheryl. "No bullshit. Get your fat ass over there and do what you're told." His look was more than intimidating, it was downright evil.

Cheryl got up and slowly, tremulously, hands held tightly in front of her breasts. She walked over to the older man.

He said. "Kneel down."

She knelt.

"Now take your hands, unzip my fly, and pull out my penis."

Cheryl was visibly shaking. She glanced over at Turner but saw no sign of sympathy. What was happening? He was enjoying this. She unzipped the old man's fly and tentatively reached into his pants. The cloth of his pants was rough, the metal zipper scraped against the back of her tiny hand.

"Come on." Grumbled the old man.

She found his thing. It was sort of small, and felt kind of stringy and greasy. It was hidden in curly nappy hair. Already she was sure he hadn't washed lately. She pulled it out of his drawers. When she got it outside his pants she looked at it. It was awful looking. It was really ugly, all brown, bent, wrinkled, and he wasn't even circumcised.

The old man looked down at her. "Kiss it."

She made pretend she was kissing it.

"No." He said. "I mean kiss it!"

She leaned forward to kiss the old man's penis. Her eyes saw it from inches away. It was soft and soggy looking. Limp not hard. A drop of pee was starting to ooze from its linty looking head. Her lips were a fraction of an inch away. She could smell stale urine, maybe a little fecal matter. Her eyes were crying out for salvation. Her lips were snarled back in rejection. Her heart had stopped beating. Nothing mattered. She was destined, no doomed, to take this hideously ugly thing in her mouth.

At that moment, at that precise second another part of her body came to her rescue. Her mind, her confused and misguided heart, her hands, none of them were any help, but her olfactory senses had gone through enough. From, her nose, to her brain to her stomach unknown and unknowable signals were sent.

Her stomach first churned and then with a resounding rush everything she'd eaten earlier in the day swept up her throat, past her soft and hard pallet, over her tongue and teeth over her lips, and out onto the old man's lap.

She vomited. Out came fresh tuna, rye bread, shards of partially digested lettuce, pickle, mushy potato chips, and tomato. Once the last of the solids were expelled she retched. She fell to the floor, resting her body on the palms of her hands. She heaved and hurled the last bits of food and a wholesome supply of phlegm from her body out on the carpet. She coughed. She gasped. She clung to her stomach.

The old man jumped from his chair pushing the sick girl away. "Get that bitch away from me! Get that filthy bitch out of here!"

Turner jumped to his feet. "Mr. Varicose I'm sorry. I'll punish the bitch. Believe she'll regret this insolence."

The old man was already halfway out the door. "See to it shit face, or I'll see to your fucking career!" Slam, the front door closed echoing the old man's anger. He was gone.

Turner turned on the helpless girl. "You bitch! You fucking worthless bitch! You'll pay for this! Fucking whore bitch! He was a paroxysm of uncontrolled and uncontrollable expletives. He was utterly and completely apoplectic! Finally he yelled. "Get your ass upstairs. Get you fucking ass upstairs."

Cheryl was terrified. She knew he had to mean the room she'd changed in. She ran as fast as she could up the stairs, half running half falling because of the slippery heeled Mary Janes. She'd get to that room, change into her clothes, and escape. Up the stairs she fled down the hall, into the tiny bedroom. She slammed the door shut. She ripped off the maid's uniform. Grabbed her own clothes. She heard the doorknob behind her turn.

Looking at the door she exclaimed. "Oh shit, oh No!" There standing in front of her, grim faced and mean was Turner. He was twirling a belt in his right hand.