The Runaway Ch. 01

"Stop it!" she squealed. "Just stop it! Can't you just find a real--"

"Janet, honey--"

"--woman like other people and leave me alone!" her voice sounded high and crazy.

"Janet, baby, open up right now and I won't punish you."

She said nothing. She was over in her closet, the way it sounded.

"Janet, you got one minute. Open up. Or I'll give you a hiding to go with it!" He tried the doorknob, which racked back and forth only a hair. "Fuckin slut cunt," he said under his breath.

"You hear me? One minute! You best be strippin off!"

There was a sound like a wooden box banging on something hard.

"Janet, what're you doing in there?" Jake couldn't form a picture from just the sounds. No more box noises came through the door, but there was a lot of movement, frantic scrabbling. Listening made nothing any clearer. She was very busy in there. Was she trashing the place out of spite?

Jake rattled the knob as hard as he could. "Open this thing! Right the fuck now!"

Growling and cursing, Jake spun and made for the cellar. "Wreckin' bar. I get nothin' outta her havin' a latch anyway!" he said. He shoved the cellar door so it slammed against the old plaster. The ancient ceramic post switch clacked loudly as ever, but the bulb remained dark.

"Jesus' ass!! The fuckin' light's out!" He clattered down the steep stairs anyway; he could turn on a light over the workbench. "A hammer and a wrecking bar."

Janet heard him go and moved even faster to fill the suitcase. She was sweating, shaking, and crying under her breath. She put on the backpack, then swung the suitcase like a hammer-thrower in the Olympics, once around and out through the window. Glass showered back inside and the piece of luggage rebounded inside, too. But the window was broken and the screen was stretched and pulled loose from its frame. Sobbing and grunting soft curses, she shoved the suitcase out. She lay her winter coat over the sill against the jagged glass teeth and snaked outside, stepping on more glass. Her hand bled a little, her ankle hurt, but she loped to the street and across it. Dodging strong light, she worked her way to the exit on I-95.

The house she left behind was silent. The next morning they would find Jake at the base of the cellar stairs.

* * * * *

Ten months later

Ras Halili made his first mistake being born. He had come forth breach and the midwife had needed to turn him. Things had not improved much since; mistake followed mistake. Halili had somehow attained adulthood with nine of his original ten fingers and only a few small scars, but his eyes betrayed his haunted mind.

"Expect the worst, Miss Fisher," he was saying this Monday morning, "then cry."

"Right," replied Miss Fisher, giving him an eye askance. He burrowed into his little office and shut the door. "Cheery little rat," she remarked.

"Who's that?" asked Joanna.

"The fix-it guy, Mr. Halili," amplified Miss Fisher. "What a moper!"

The two women sat together in a rectangular space near the main entrance and functioned as the friendly troubleshooters of the mall, giving directions, helping find lost objects and missing mothers, passing along messages and warnings, smoothing feathers. Miss Fisher was Information and Joanna Customer Service. At least, so the signs above their heads proclaimed. But there was a lot of time during the day to converse, just the same; they discussed poor Mr. Halili and spread the story of his little proverb about expecting the worst.

Hal Kline from the custodial staff heard it from Joanna and told it to the girls at The Gap. Lisa at The Gap got a cell phone call from her roommate and told her the story.

So it was that just after lunch Janet Waterman knocked on the little door marked MAINTENANCE. Like the duchess's footman, he told her "There's no use in knocking."

"Why not?" Janet asked.

"I'm not in there; that's my room. Can I help you with something?"

"You're the fix-it guy, Khalil?"

Halili gave her his name and placed himself again at her disposal. She noted the missing index finger and the sad eyes, but to Janet, he seemed friendly and equable, not depressed or despondent.

"Can I come in?"

"I suppose; there isn't much room there, but yes, if you like." He stepped up and inserted his key, the door ceded, and Janet moved into the little office ahead of him.

She didn't notice the faint sour musk of the damp mop head, but it brought a twinge of regret to Halili. The customer oughtn't to have to smell such a thing. He resolved to be especially accommodating, to leave a better impression with her.

Her head swiveled to take in the geography of the tiny office. She was young and, he thought, pretty; she reminded him of Concepción, the girl he'd asked to his prom in high school. Concepción, too, had been a mistake; she and her girlfriend were already going to the prom together to shock people with their lesbian relationship.

But Halili imagined there was less at stake with this woman. It would be another repair to do. He was wrong, of course, but it was only a misimpression, not a mistake, not yet. "What do you need me to do, ma'am?" he prompted her.

"Why don't you sit right here in the chair, sweetie," she said, smiling. It was a smile with a secret in it. Halili balked and wanted her to clarify, but she tugged his arm and repeated her demand, and Halili allowed himself to be seated. He'd hardly done it when she leaned on the chair arms, her face an inch from his. He smelled melons freshly cut, lipstick, warm cotton cloth. "Now hold still. Pull your feet down flat. That's right."

Halili saw subtle glitter at her neck, upon her cheeks and eyelids, even between her breasts. Her melony, musky smell was very pleasant, her body was ample, even lush. Now her knee moved between his and nudged outward impatiently. "What are you doing, ma'am?" he babbled. People were so unpredictable; you could never tell, but this was unprecedented.

Janet nudged his knee again. "Open 'em! There!" Both knees were between his, now, spreading his legs apart. She stood alarmingly close. His eyes flickered to her tanned breasts, back to her amused eyes. He held tightly to the chair arms.

She leaned in more, past his face, and spoke right by his ear. Her breath played across his ear and neck as she told him to just stay still. Her cleavage filled his field of vision. Her bra was a lurid green; he could see the catch, green plastic, suspended between her breasts. But the cups didn't cover her nipples, he could see them, too, in the shadows. He told her he would be still. It almost didn't surprise him when she kissed his ear.

Janet met all kinds in this job. This one was sweetly innocent and completely unsuspecting. These Mediterranean guys liked their women rounded and soft, most of them. Halili was clay in her hands, she felt licensed to do anything at all. She sensed his fascination and total complaisance. "I got him," she told herself.

"Just a second!" she whispered into his ear.

"Yes."

She straightened, tapped a fingertip on his nose and made him blink, grinned at his open-mouthed amazement, and then turned away a little and bent over, presenting him her soft buns in the little skirt. From her bag on the floor she pulled up a CD player and speakers. She set them all on a box of bath tissues and pushed a button. He was watching her bottom move inside the cloth in aroused shock. A bass line started and music filled the little room: pure Smokey Robinson.

With Smokey's first lyrics, Janet made a little mmm and ran her hands up her hips and flanks, twisting her hips in a grind. Halili heard the sound of her stockings rubbing. Dancing now, she returned to her slot between his legs, rubbing her belly and then up to her breasts. She squeezed them with her eyes locked on his face, and then, to his astonishment, unbuttoned her blouse, still moving to the music.

Her belly was tanned, too, and her navel deep like a tufted cushion. Her bangles and watch gleamed and rattled, her hips swayed. Once the blouse was open and free, she flashed him one side. Her nipple had more glitter on it; the pushup bra covered none of it.

It dawned on Ras that she must be a stripper. Someone had sent a stripper to him, at his work, right to his office in the mall! Who would do such a thing? He knew no one here so well as that. It had to be a joke or something. His head swam. He listed his friends in his mind; none of them would think so much of him and yet so little of his sensibilities to have her come here. It was absurd.

But he stopped thinking at all and held his breath when she twisted herself to let him see her unzip the skirt. The waist of it fell open, and Smokey's sensuous tenor accompanied her movements perfectly as she wriggled to drop it at her feet. They were not pantyhose, but stockings with lacy elastic tops. A double line of green lace snaked in little ruffles down the center of her little panties. Here, at least, she was less tanned.

When she bent low to get the skirt, pink flesh, also ruffled, peeked out between the lines of lace. The whole thing was split and would easily open to expose her. Halili was awed; he had never seen crotchless ones before. She was plump like a peach, ripe and lush, soft. Her beauty was as the houris of in the gardens of plenty.

Who would do this?

"Stop worrying, sweetie. You don't owe me a thing; this is a gift, enjoy it."

"A gift!" Ras grasped the information; it was a straw, but he had been drowning. "But who?"

"My roommate and some people at her work. Now, listen. You get a lap dance, but they paid extra and Lisa said to do all I could to cheer you up. Shall I lock the door?"

Lisa. The name didn't signify anything just then. "The door," he repeated in a brainless way, and she stroked his cheek with a smile.

"All right, then. You smell nice, so I'm willing to see where this goes. I'll get it."

Janet locked the door and Smokey was replaced by the Eagles. Janet was an oldies fan.

Somebody's gonna hurt someone... began the voice over the tight drum and the vamp. Janet was limited in the tiny office, which was mostly shelves and tool cabinets, a little workbench using up a corner, a desk gulping up a wall, file cabinets. But even hemmed in she always could dance.

Her curves jiggled and shook with every motion. Her green underclothes hid nothing yet it seemed too much was covered. She danced between his knees and rubbed her bottom on him, she straightened her legs and sent it up to his face. The split in the panties showed him her secrets, pink-brown ruffles between the pale plump loaves of skin, not inches away from his nose. His alarm faded; he felt safe with the door locked so he relaxed. When he did, a surge of arousal ballooned up inside his belly, as if his tension had been a lid.

Pussy! Quim, trim, clam, cunt, mokus! The old eternal quiff Man has sought in all ages and all climes! Women universally mock men for their foolishness in the presence of a round ass or a glimpse of tit, but the responses are programmed, wired in. Instinctual and glandular responses of an ancient and powerful logic, never to be denied, requiring an effort of conscious will to override. Strippers make a game and a cynical living from a set of strong impulses embedded in the grue of men.

Ras Halili was not immune, not crippled by any dysfunctions, and not thinking in straight lines. She possessed him. He was hooked by her body and gaffed by her attitude. If she'd known the state he was in, she could have steaked him up for dinner, but she was still doing a job.

And a very expert job; she displayed her soft breasts, snaked her body over his to breathe on his cheek, laid a foot at his ear and opened herself so close he could smell the brighter smell beneath the melon scent. She bent over for him, she stroked herself to call his attention to her nipples, her belly, her soft tan flanks and womanly hips. She lay along him and writhed against him.

It was beautiful and broken, as all such artificial contacts are. Halili felt acutely the falsity, and he was more certain than ever that something would go wrong. Still he lifted his body to meet her, moved his cheek to brush the breast, shivered when the nipple touched his ear and his neck, inhaled her cunt smell and squirmed in his cheap office chair to allow his rising cock to expand against her insistent ass.

And both of them were receiving wages for the experience.

"He likes my ass more than my tits," she thought, approving. She bent away from him and peeled the lace down over her buns, moving her knees to the music to make them sway and twist. "I can leave the bra on." Just today, she wanted the support.

The little panties made their way to the floor. Janet turned and felt his cock through the blue Dickies. Hard as bone. "Your turn, sweetie," she purred, working his belt buckle. "Here we go."

Even Halili's doubt was delicious. She stripped him to the ankles and opened his legs again. With a catlike quickness, she applied her warm breasts directly to his cock, smirking into his puppy eyes and running her hands up his chest. His smell impressed her again; something about the man was arousing her sympathy.

Her soft belly followed the breasts, she nuzzled his neck. Halili could feel the sweet mound similarly nuzzling his cock now. She was pushing it side-to-side with the blunt flesh; he imagined a dampness in the contact and whimpered into her ear. His need and his tension rose together now. He felt great issues hung on his every choice, but he reached around her to touch the jutting buns, to feel them working under his shaking fingers. Her pussy pushed him back and forth, her skin felt amazingly smooth and beautiful.

"Relax, now; I'm not dangerous," she chuckled. "Go ahead and touch it."

"Thank you," he said. She had to smile wider to mask her amusement.

"I like the hands," she breathed, feeling as she said it the cock shaft twitch between her labia. "Take them and squeeze! Play with them. Yeah. Yeah." She closed her eyes, and she was just a little less menacing. Halili's fingers felt of her anus, brushed the wet slit from behind.

That part moved out of reach but she moved it like a mouth along his cock, slowly up along the underside and then down to the root. She rode its curve but didn't take it inside, her weight jamming it firmly into his belly. His fingers moved the flesh of her anus, her breasts deformed against his chest, her melon and musk overtook his inhibition.

"Oh!"

"Don't worry, hon."

"Billah!"

"Want more?"

Watching his worshiping eyes, feeling his fingers open her anus, and rubbing her clit hard into his ridgy cock flesh-- it all added up. Janet was close to actually coming.

"More!" His eyes widened. "Please! Yes!"

"Lick me, then?"

"Yes, yes!"

The Eagles predicted a heartache, but neither of them paid much attention to that. She placed a shoe on his chair arm and tossed her hair back, standing. His cock sprang away from his belly, slick and shiny under the naked lightbulb. The man moved slowly down and pulled her hips in close.

His eagle's beak nose invaded her pussy, his tongue scraped across her sensitive asshole, languidly around and back again. In the quiet following the Eagles' last guitar riff came her indrawn gasp. Her body shook with surprise; a detonation in the groin sent sparkles of delight through her. The bridge of his nose kept the heat on while his tongue and fingers played beneath her, opening, stretching.

Her grunts of appreciation formed a segue into the Pretenders. "I got brass," sneered Chrissy Hynde, "in pocket!" Halili's beefy fingers plunged into her and circled a little roughly. His tongue moved up and worked the clit like a speed bag.

"Jesus, Khalil!"

"Halili," he corrected, leaving Jesus on his own. He found the place and pushed against it, pressing in and moving the pressure in a circle, licking the clit in sharp staccato to the bouncing beat of the veteran band. He knew the G-spot, but he'd never had a chance to use it. He looked up at her face, but she was not focused on anything. She looked like a dervish in trance, and it made him grin. As he continued, obeying her frantic Harder! Harder-- Jesus! she was coming like fireworks over the bay. Her legs shook and she laid hands on top of Halili's head, leaning a lot of weight on it.

His neck hurt. "Please, you must bend down, I will get it from behind you," he said.

"All right, sorry, oh get it!"

Her big soft buns turned up as she buried her head in his chair, imploring him to keep going. She looked so perfect. Halili turned and gave the spot his thumb, working his tongue against her asshole. She muffled her shrieks in the chair cushion. Chrissy wailed, "I wanna have some of your... attention! Give it to me!"

His tongue took the cue and penetrated her now guileless ass. The next few bars he fucked it with an avid tongue, rubbing his thumb harshly inside her pussy.

He pulled his head back to breathe and there it was, hanging open, dark, inviting. He took her cheeks in both hands, opened her, and jammed his cock at her gaping hole. Janet squirmed under him and the head slid exquisitely through the ring of dark puckers.

"O God! O Halili, yes!"

He leaned on it and drove into her gut. Three strokes and he was in to the hilt in this heavenly white ass.

"Oh, you prick! Fuck me, you bastard--!"

Her words drove him mad, he came in spasms as he jammed cock over and over into the utterly compliant stripper. The friction built but then his seed made everything smooth and fine again. He wallowed in her delightful ass, his joyful praise ascended to heaven.

Janet bit her lip and panted as the little man took her. "It's fantastic!" she thought, "I never came so hard!"

Then with a plummeting feeling she realized all at once that it was unprotected. She hissed in sudden fear and stood, making little yelps, slapping him on the thigh. He extracted himself and regarded her face, uncomprehending.

"Jesus motherfuckin Christ, you idiot!" she said. Her arm came back behind her and she swung an artless roundhouse to the side of Halili's head. His pants were still at his ankles and he fell asprawl among the supplies and tools. She hit him a few more times and then kicked him while she got dressed. He howled and tried to fend off the blows with his arms. He ended in a curl of misery among his scattered gear, looking at her pale grim face in disbelief.

"Fuck this!" Janet, dressed now, banged down on the button to stop the music. Flinging the door wide she stalked off fuming to the nearest exit. "Can you say, death wish, boys and girls?" People gave her plenty of room and she marched in straight lines to her car.

Halili had to crawl naked to the door and shut it. At least three people saw him doing it, and he lay sobbing and miserable on the floor, bruised and completely ignorant of what he had done to offend her. "Always!" he cried. "Always! I am cursed!"

When he poked his head out, though, no one seemed to be noticing. When he got into the men's room, he saw red slap marks and a fresh bruise on his face. He moped through his remaining hours speaking to no one and drove disconsolately home.

* * * * *

Eleven days later

Halili almost never was the last to leave the mall, but he did leave after closing most nights. He checked the lock behind him and turned away. It was a cool fall night and the stars were out.

There are no real trees near malls. The sky is always visible and there's a wind there, if there is one anywhere. They're like airports, in that way. Halili liked the stars. Most people never seemed to look, so he felt they were just for him and the other people who looked up.

A woman was approaching, though.