Mary Jenkins - Innocent in Chicago Volume One

"You God-damn bastards! How dare you! Here! In my office! Do you think this is a whore house?" He was so furious he seemed almost insane, stuttering and spitting, kicking the desk with his foot and pounding it with his fist to accentuate his words. "What kind of… damnation… you bloody sucking… get the hell out of here!"

They both sidled toward the door, Bill sputtering in his attempt to apologize.

"Shut up!" Mr. Jackson roared. "You, Bill, get the hell out! I'll tend to you tomorrow." He pointed a shaking finger to Cynthia, "But you stay. I'll talk to you now!" and he brought his fist down on the desk with such force that the telephone jumped and gave a metallic buzz.

"And shut the God-damn door when you leave!" he yelled after Bill's scuttling figure.

Cynthia backed into a corner behind a chair and stood there trembling. As he stared at her malevolently, grinding his jaws, she realized that she was still clutching the sweater to her bare breasts. She turned her back to him and quickly slipped it on with fumbling fingers. Behind her, she heard him sink down heavily in his chair, wheezing and panting.

She turned around and stood quietly, afraid to look at him or move. In the silence she could hear her heart thudding wildly.

"Now, young lady," he said in a strangely quiet voice. "Just what is the meaning of all this? You're new here aren't you?"

"Yes," she replied in a faint voice. Her one desire was not to irritate him further and to get out as quickly as possible.

"Are you trying to turn this office into your private boudoir?" he asked sarcastically.

"No, I'm sorry… I… we… we were working late and…"

"Yes, so I saw. A new way to work overtime."

"No, really. We'd finished working and no one was here and…" her words tumbled out.

"Shut up! I don't care if you were really working or not. All I care about is your having the unmitigated, God-damn gall to think you could use this place to carry on your God-damn love affairs and…"

"But I…"

"I said 'Shut up'." he roared. "I don't give a damn what you do outside, but this is place of business and not a strip joint for every tart who gets the urge to take her clothes off!"

Head lowered, she looked up at him under her lashes, wondering why he simply didn't tell her to get out as he had Bill. His face was beet-red, mottled with angry purple patches; fringed with wisps of grey hair, even his bald head was a bright pink. He spat the words out between tightly clamped jaws; on the desk his hands were interlocked, the fingers nervously clenching and unclenching. Realizing that she was alone with him in the empty building, she began to feel afraid, for his anger and appearance were not that of a normal man; she began to perspire nervously under her clothes. She glanced toward the door and began edging toward it, moving sideways, inching slowly, afraid he would notice her movements.

"Where in hell do you think you're going?" he screamed, and sprang to his feet, moving with surprising quickness. She darted to the door but her perspiring hands slid fruitlessly on the metal knob and before she could get it open, he was there, his hand seizing her arm and roughly wrenching her away. He flung her back into the room. Her heel caught on the edge of the rug. She staggered and fell awkwardly to the floor. Tears came to her eyes and she began to sob. She heard the key turn in the lock and a tight knock of despairing fear turned in her stomach.

She heard a snort of evil laughter and then the sharp rasp of a match and smelled the tang of cigar smoke; she cried out as the tossed match burned through her stocking, stinging her leg, and cried out more loudly when his foot kicked her thigh. Through her tears she could see his heavy brown shoes planted solidly a few inches from her face. Afraid he would kick her again, she lay quietly, only her chest heaving as she tried to stifle her sobs.

He laughed loudly.

"Well, well, well, so the little bitch is afraid." He prodded her with his foot. "Come on," he said angrily. "Cut out the act and get up. You wanted to use that plump ass of yours tonight so you might as well at least sit on it."

She started to get up, watching his feet warily. Sudden pain pierced through her as he grabbed her long hair and roughly dragged her to her feet. She screamed, her mouth a large "O" of smudged lipstick but the sharp flick of his hand across her face closed her lips and a wave of dizziness flooded through her. She stumbled backward, landing heavily in a chair. As she began to faint she heard, as from a great distance through layer upon layer of cotton wool, his hysterical laugh, ending in a series of loud hiccoughs. He picked up a decanter of water from a side table and splashed it over her face, drenched her sweater and skirt and it dripped from the ends of her sodden hair, now hanging in limp ringlets about her tear stained face. But it brought her to her senses. Even though she was still afraid, she began to get angry.

"Stop it! Stop it!" she screamed at him and started to get out of her chair. He twisted her arm behind her and threw her back into it. Biting and kicking blindly, she yelled through her sobs, choking on tears, "Stop it! What are you doing? Why? Let me go, you bastard! Let me go!"

But he held her firmly, chuckling all the while, until finally she collapsed into the chair, weak and exhausted.

"Fighting little bitch, aren't you." He stepped back, drawing casually on his cigar, and regarded her. His eyes were cold and hard, the pupils small and steely-black. A muscle in his cheek twitched spasmodically.

"So you want to know what this is all about, heh?" He walked behind her and put his hand on the nape of her neck. "Well, I'll tell you, though God knows why. You've certainly had rougher treatment than this in your whoring life."

"But I'm not a…" she cried.

"Shut up!" he shouted. "I've seen you twitching that ass around here, pointing those knockers under everyone's nose, sash-shaying around like a bitch in heat."

"But I haven't…"

He jerked her hair. She groomed and fell silent.

"And I've wanted you ever since you first waggled into here, you God-damn cunt, but…"

His hand loosened on her hair and she heard his heavy step behind her, pacing restlessly back and forth.

"But you see, I…" his voice was suddenly quiet, almost apologetic. "God knows why I'm telling you this, you stupid bitch, but I've lusted after you so damn much and…" His voice went on, now sounding almost tearful, hopeless, "And well, I haven't been able to get an erection for years."

She drew in her breath sharply.

"Look, I'm sorry. I go out of my mind sometimes when I realize I can't…" he paused. "Look, take off your clothes for me, will you, and just let me look at you?" he pleaded.

She suddenly felt sorry for him. But she also wanted to get out as soon as possible and, thinking he'd surely let her go peacefully if she submitted to his request, she got up and quietly started taking off her clothes, fumbling at her skirt zipper, keeping her head bent so she wouldn't have to look at him.

"You can keep your stockings and shoes on," he said in a low, tense voice.

When she had undressed, she stood quietly, demurely.

"Now walk around," he whispered, "and hold your head up."

She had walked slowly about the room, feeling his eyes devouring her flesh. Self-conscious and ill at ease, at first she walked awkwardly, as if each muscle was attached to a string he was holding in his clenched hand and jerking at his command. But in the silence she gradually relaxed. Under the firm skin of her tanned buttocks the muscles rippled smoothly; her pointed breasts jiggled up and down, their nipples bobbing like small pink corks; her thighs brushed against each other with a faint sucking sound, their fullness downy with a fine golden fuzz end marred only by the large purple bruise where he had kicked her.