Can't Say No Ch. 09

While tucking me into my seat, Mr. Lunder extended forward, granting himself--I immediately realized--a free view down my dress. I glared up at him, hoping to shame him by catching him in the act. Eventually, he returned my stare, grinning gormlessly, without a hint of embarrassment.

Mr. Lunder deposited himself next to me with an audible sigh. His chair protested as he scooted closer, bringing a hefty leg into contact with my thigh. We were pressed together like a box of crayons. Resentfully, I hunched away from him, convinced he had room to scoot in the opposite direction. To my frustration, the unrepentant contact between our legs remained, as though the inevitable result of limited space.

Mr. Lunder sighed with content. Unlike me, he was happiest when sitting. He smiled over mom and I, like a king holding court. "Break open that wine, won't you, Jennifer? I think the soon to be graduate should have her own toast."

Mom leapt forward, bottle-opener ready, looking more like a dinner attendant than participant. I smiled when Mr. Lunder acknowledged me but avoided looking at him. He spoke as though graduation was a big deal, but that wasn't true. Graduation didn't matter if there was no scholarship to go with it. The mere mention of graduation sent my mind spiraling into anxiously planning more conditioning work outs.

A deliberate nudge of legs under the table killed my smile. Mr. Lunder had fixed me with a lingering stare, which I ignored, hoping for a new subject of conversation.

"Yes, Jessie's Senior year has been very exciting, she's doing well in her classes, and she's the captain of the soccer team. Isn't that right Jessie?" said Mom, beaming at me so intently Mr. Lunder's wine glass nearly overflowed.

"Yup," I nodded. When the conversation ended, I could heap food on my plate. However, the eyes of the table weren't finished with me. Old people eyeballed me longer than necessary whenever the conversation turned my way.

"Captain of the women's soccer team you mean," Mr. Lunder chuckled. He plucked the wine bottle from Mom's hand. "That's not what a young woman like Jessica should be worrying about. Let's toast to next year when she'll be finished with those distractions." Dark liquid sloshed unexpectedly into the glass in front of me. A glass of wine, just as full as Mr. Lunder's, maybe fuller. He had made a mistake. I wasn't allowed to drink. Alcohol was terrible for athletes, not to mention I wasn't even twenty-one yet. I waited for Mom to snatch the glass away.

Mom pursed her lips, as though her withering gaze would make the wine explode. "Jessie, well... To Jessie then." Mom lifted her glass in a belated toast.

Openmouthed, I gaped from Mom to the wine, still not certain I was interpreting this correctly, but there was no further objection. Wary to waste my chance, I grasped the glass and held it aloft. Light illuminated the dark red contents. My chest pulsed with disbelieving excitement. I tipped the glass back and gulped, keeping both eyes on my dress, making sure no droplets spilled. The flavor was surprisingly bitter. With effort, I stifled a cough, worried I would betray my inexperience.

When I grimaced, Mr. Lunder smiled wolfishly, purple wine bleeding through his teeth. "I remember my first drink. This means you're a young woman now, Jessica. No need to feel shy, you'll get used to the taste." He thumped my back with a meaty hand. As he touched my bare shoulders, my head shook involuntarily. Mr. Lunder frowned sympathetically.

Still assessing the powerful aftertaste in my throat, I gave his words little mind. What annoyed me was Mr. Lunder calling out my inexperience. Even if his opinion didn't matter, I was tired of being people treating me like a child. In the interest of spiting him, I took an even larger gulp, feigning nonchalance. Since I knew what to expect, keeping a straight face was easier this time.

When I glanced over, Mr. Lunder was looking away. I hated the obnoxious twinkle in his eye.

Mr. Lunder grabbed the plate of steaks, serving the largest to himself, and one to Mom. My mouth watered. Frustratingly, the only dish within arm's length was the salad bowl. I hastily scooped some and tried to pass it off.

"No leaves for me, I prefer real food," said Mr. Lunder dismissively, heaping potatoes excessively onto his plate. Already the bowl was disturbingly close to empty. Desperate for something else on my plate, I reached for the leftovers.

"Give me the potatoes," I said, using the expression I saved for when I wanted something done.

Mr. Lunder surveyed me, holding the bowl out of reach like a sibling with a coveted toy. My stomach chose that moment to grumble loudly.

"Jessie, that's not how we ask for things," Mom chimed in unhelpfully.

I made eye contact with Mr. Lunder, but his beady eyes were tangled in the vicinity of my outfit.

"Can you please pass the potatoes?" Asking the question gave me physical pain. The injustice of being chastised set my nostrils flaring.

Mr. Lunder's eyes snapped back to mine. His lopsided smile set his stubbled jowls aquiver. "Of course, you may have some."

He held the bowl closer, but not close enough. I had to stretch over him to take them.

"This steak is delicious," Mr. Lunder exclaimed, making no effort to mask his chewing.

By clattering the serving spoon, I partially drowned him out. Only a sad number of potatoes remained for my plate.

"Thank you, marinating them took me all night," said Mom, dissecting a miniscule sliver of meat.

With renewed focus, I located the steak plate, but was puzzled. Nothing but juices remained. Where did the last steak go? The culprit was obvious. Mr. Lunder had stacked both our steaks on his plate and was carving them two at a time.

"You took the rest of the steak? I didn't get any." I blurted. What kind of oaf could be so selfish? My empty stomach demanded justice. Jabbing a pointed heel through Mr. Lunder's sandaled foot seemed appropriate.

There was an awkward silence, like everyone was doing their best not to acknowledge a fart. Mr. Lunder frowned. For a moment, the only sound was his relentless chewing. Eventually, he swallowed and cleared his throat, adopting a patient expression, as though explaining something painfully simple, "I decided to have an extra steak, which I am entitled to. There's plenty of salad left, which you should prefer anyway. If salad isn't good enough for you, then you can get a job, and buy your own steak? How does that sound?"

"I--" I'd never had a job. A couple friends of mine had done part-time work, but that's not what most girls did. I'd been a counselor at soccer camp, but that was unpaid. "--I can't get a job." I said lamely.

"Well then, you've made your choice. Some salad will be good for you. Women your age doesn't stay skinny forever, you know." Mr. Lunder accompanied this last statement with a playful swipe at my nose.

Before I could retort, he leaned closer--we were already shoulder to shoulder--abandoning his neighborly demeanor and speaking into my ear where only I could hear. "Don't ever argue with me again."

The chill in his voice doused my anger. I prayed for more space between us that didn't exist. Looking away, I pretended nothing had happened. Timidly, I skewered a small potato and nibbled it. Mom showed no sign of having heard anything.

For the rest of the meal, I made my indignation clear. Ceramic clattered as I skewered salad leaves with vehemence, imagining they were Mr. Lunder's sausage fingers. As suspected, no amount of salad satisfied the hunger of a two and a half hour soccer practice. My muscles needed protein and carbs.

Polite chatter morphed into dry grown-up speak, the kind Mom liked, filled with mind-numbing terms like 'supply' and 'operations.' Apparently, Mr. Lunder was a semi-retired 'consultant', whatever that was. The conversation was confusing, and I refused to listen to Mr. Lunder long enough to make sense of it.

My fingers danced on the tablecloth, longing to be reunited with my phone. Responses to my messages would be there. Wearing such a flawless outfit only to be stuck here was a cruel joke. My face had looked perfect in the mirror, beyond cute. It was a tragic waste. I could've been sending pictures to people who adored me.

The night's saving grace was the wine. A rush of hidden glee ran through me with each sip. In the absence of good food or conversation, I found my hand stuck on my glass. As luck would have it, Mr. Lunder kept refilling my wine, which was fortunate because I didn't dare reach for the bottle myself in front of Mom. Trying to keep food away from my dress gave me enough to do. To my relief, the eating portion of the night was nearly concluded.

An alien feeling clamored for space in my brain. The table was spiraling, which was not what it was supposed to do, the table shouldn't be moving at all. Okay I should sit up straight. It was odd. Sitting up straight wasn't something I often thought about. I smiled widely, noticing a warm haziness--which I couldn't quite shake--blanketing my senses. The wine! Of course, the wine! Excitement from the amazing discovery nearly led to a burst of giggles. Instead, I snorted air out my nose, looking down at the stained tablecloth. I would've looked like an idiot!

Paranoid, I surveyed Mom and Mr. Lunder, did they notice the turmoil looping through my body? Unfortunately, wiping the sly grin off my face was as impossible as separating my chair from Mr. Lunder's. Even the hairy leg prickling against mine under the table felt like a distant inconvenience.

Mercifully, the ongoing conversation showed no signs of slowing down, and the topic seemed too complicated for my opinion to be necessary. That was fine, seeing as my immediate surroundings were delightfully entertaining.

Sloshing splashes caught my attention, as the dregs of a wine bottle were emptied into my glass. Such a teeny tiny bottle in a big hairy hand. I snickered. Then snatched the glass. What cute nail polish I have. I gawped at my bright green fingernails, before remembering the wine. I gulped the liquid greedily, eager to enhance my euphoria.

My appetite for conversation grew ever second, I needed to be heard.

"Today, I was watching World Cup qualifying. Have you guys heard the next World Cup is going to be in the U.S? Like, uh-h, how cool is that?" I spoke into a lull in the conversation.

"Soccer? Does anyone pay attention to that?" asked Mr. Lunder.

My mom tittered, "That's exciting, Jessie."

"There's more, someone said the U.S.A might, like, bring back their women's team when they host! I am going to--" I hiccupped. "--play for them someday," I finished, wiping my mouth.

"Ha-ah! Women's soccer, possibly the only thing worse than regular soccer. What waste of money that would be, subsidizing a soccer team no one will even bother watching. The U.S.A had the right idea getting rid of it. Why would they want to encourage such an unprofitable event?" said Mr. Lunder, shaking his bulbous head and furrowing his eyebrows.

"Uh-h. No one asked you." I interrupted. "There should be a women's team if there's going to be a men's team."

Mr. Lunder gave a condescending chuckle, as though a child was failing to grasp something obvious. "You are a delightfully opinionated girl, Jessie." He smiled toward me, revealing wine-stained teeth, and reclined in his chair, as though prepared to offer a generous indulgence. "Even if they wasted their time allowing it. What would be the point of a women's soccer team at that level? Women are slower and less coordinated. People would be bored." He waggled a beefy finger--irritatingly close to my face--as if to emphasize some grand point. "Any man who walked on the field would instantly be the best player. What's the point of that? People watch sports to see great athletes. Trust me, if you understood sports, you'd understand how silly you sound." He returned to his steak, as though the matter was settled.

"Well, uh-h... that's not true--" I searched for a rebuttal. Women's soccer wasn't boring. Why didn't he understand that? Not all women were slower and less coordinated. Mr. Lunder didn't have a prayer to beating me in a footrace.

"Of course, it is," said Mr. Lunder confidently. "Now I suppose it might be entertaining to watch some women play. If they had the right uniforms... But, no--no, definitely no reason to bother. We already have cheerleaders, which are more than enough, I think."

"Well, I better get started with the dishes," said mom, rising from her seat. She cleaned with formidable restlessness.

"When you've finished cleaning, go upstairs and wait for me, Jennifer." Mr. Lunder ordered.

"Oh-h, of course," mom giggled sweetly. Evidently, she had no problem with being bossed around in her own home.

My chin nodded onto my chest. The lids of my eyes were awfully heavy, so I satisfied myself listening to the loud sounds of my breathing. The softness of my upstairs bed sounded fantastic. Arms folded, I decided to ignore Mr. Lunder until he went away. The man was as repugnant inside and out.

Even with my eyes closed, I could still sense his presence at the table. An arm grabbed my shoulders, which eventually registered in the back of my mind.

"That's a tight little dress you have on. It suits you," Mr. Lunder said, intent on pulling me closer with his arm.

"Um--" There was no buffer to begin with. His meaty arm enveloped my hunched shoulders, transferring grease residue onto my skin.

I squinted at Mr. Lunder, fighting to see him clearly. The breadth of his shoulders combined with his sizeable gut protrusion reminded me of a hairy ape, reposing on a throne. I squinted against the light.

No one deserved to have to look at the hodgepodge of crudely assembled features which passed for his face. The buzzing in my head made me feel hot, and the proximity of our bodies was making it worse. With a firm push into his stomach, I resolved to stand up, but didn't quite manage to sit up. Pinned between his gut and arm, moving further ensnared me in his embrace.

"You belong on my lap, doll." Without trouble, I was pulled from my seat and deposited on an uncomfortable knee.

Held tight, I straddled Mr. Lunder's thigh, awkwardly, which he bounced up and down. Gold hair flounced around my face. There was little to cushion the hardness of his knee against my butt. The unsteady motion upset me. My brain demanded a return to the ground.

"Mr. Lunder--"

"Please, call me Greg, hm?" A hand on my hip held me steady, but his beady eyes sparkled when he bounced me. Farther along, his other hand roamed my thigh, squeezing and prodding muscle, relentlessly mapping my leg.

I looked around at him, staring for what felt like too long. Time was crawling. Now that we were alone together, my sluggish mind adopted a muted concern, but my worry felt abstract, as though for a third party, and not myself. Mr. Lunder wouldn't let go. I did not like being trapped here.

"Can I go to my room, Greg?" I pouted. Using his name in a moment of improvised brilliance, suspecting it would appease him. The words tumbled past my lips, prompted by my buzzing head, and the uncomfortable knee under my butt. The sooner he went to hang out with Mom, the sooner I would be free of him.

When I was done talking, he bounced me again, then brushed the hair out of my face. "An interesting thought. Let me think... Jessica, Jessica... Do you think you deserve to go to your room?" A lopsided smile spread across his face, which was a good sign.

"But I can't balance!" I blurted out. Suddenly the uncomfortable knee I was sitting on was the most pressing matter in the world. Anxiously I clamped my thighs around his leg, terrified of slipping off, and wondering how I'd balanced this long without thinking about it.

Mr. Lunder chuckled dotingly. Snaking his arms around my waist and chest, holding me steady. Bound in his iron grip, my muscles relaxed a fraction, relieved the impending threat of tumbling onto the floor had been dealt with. How often I'd taken balance for granted!

"What a delightfully dramatic girl you are, Jessie. There's no need to trouble your little head. You're right where you're supposed to be," Mr. Lunder murmured. To my right, his cheek rubbed against my hair, allowing his lips to nestle close to my ear, magnifying his words.

"I'm not dramatic," I said indignantly, registering the word. All around me was a deluge of sensations. His stubble was scratching my face. The physical contact was pleasant until I remembered who it was.

"My dress!" I exclaimed. Mr. Lunder's hands were covered in grease. "Move your hands," I demanded. I pried at his fingers, desperately. A smudge would ruin the dress, and I needed to keep it perfect.

Implacable to my pulling, his hands possessed effortless strength, no matter what angle I tugged them. Anxious for my dress, I yanked forcefully, attempting to solve this new emergency.

Mr. Lunder's hands snapped up--like an animal irritated with a buzzing fly--locking my wrists in place. A jolt of primal panic thumped in my chest. The table, dinner plates and chairs spun around me like a kaleidoscope.

"Such bossy lips on you. And terrible manners. Before tonight, I thought you were a very mature girl. Your mother would be disappointed if she saw you acting like this," growled Mr. Lunder, affable demeanor vanishing. "I want you to think very carefully how you behave, because this won't cut it in the future."

I took several deep breaths while processing his words. Shame prickled my ears. The disapproval in his tone was unmistakable. Why was he yelling at me? Tears sprung from nowhere, blurring my vision. A second ago, my words had flowed effortlessly, but clearly, they'd all come out wrong. Why didn't he just understand about the dress? I nearly growled my frustration. With faltering breath, I tried to steady the wobbling room. My behavior mattered, and I had done something wrong. I wished I could fix everything.

At least Mr. Lunder thought I was mature. Hopefully his opinion hadn't changed. I needed to act better. Just act mature, the way you normally do, I assured myself. Going to bed would be nice. Once there I could unpack things.

"I'm sorry, um, Greg. I was just, like, worried about my dress. It's brand new." I hiccupped, keeping my hands still. Please stop being mad.

He pulled my wrist, placing my hand on his erection. The contours were quickly recognizable through thin nylon. When he didn't let go, I grasped it tentatively, using it as an anchor in an uneven room. Be mature about this.

"It's okay, doll. Take it out," Mr. Lunder hissed.

He let my other wrist go, and I fumbled with the elastic waist of his shorts. This, at least, I understood. Several seconds passed. With uncharacteristic clumsiness, my mortified hands struggled to free their target. Sitting on his lap made everything awkward.

With a sigh, Mr. Lunder reached down and loosened his shorts. I had to sit up so he could maneuver himself with me on his lap.

With difficulty, I snaked my hand beneath his gut, fumbling until I found the spot and got my hand around him. The threat of Mr. Lunder's disappointment was palpable. The last thing I needed was to be the source of his displeasure.

"Now stroke it," Mr. Lunder said, "firmly!"

Terrified of further embarrassment, I obeyed. Firm was easy. I lifted weights all the time, and arm tone was a source of jealousy among my friends.

I focused on my hand. The simplicity of the task occupying my mind. Soon the awkward angle shrank into a minor nuisance. There were harder workouts than this.

"That's more like it, Jessie. You're such a good slut when you listen," Mr. Lunder groaned.

A shiver of relief tingled my spine when he praised me. All was forgiven. Since there was no choice but to obey him, it made things easier. The stress of being alone with an angry man was lessened this way. He pulled on my dress, exposing a boob underneath, and bit the nipple.