Neither This Nor That Box Set 1 Page 2

  “I’m here, Freddie,” she called, fingers giving Georgie’s shoulders a gentle squeeze before she stepped around him, and she walked to the front room, her dressing gown billowing out, body proudly naked underneath. “Right here for you, doll baby. Ready for you.”

  Chapter Two

  George, age thirteen

  Georgie stood in the corner of the room. A silent sentinel, his job for the night was observing. When it was first brought up, Mama had argued against it, but Miz Oleander had been adamant. The john in bed with Mari had wanted an audience, the younger, the better, and was willing to pay big money for such. “Coral, thirteen ain’t too young. He’s got a willie and will learn how to use it soon enough. Grover is a gentleman, treats all the girls right. Your boy could do worse than learning from this man.”

  Mama had made some vague noises beyond that, but Miz Oleander cut her off. “During the war between the states, we had thirteen- and fourteen-year-old soldiers. If a boy of thirteen could fight a war then, he surely can watch a man takin’ his pleasure from a pretty woman in my house.”

  Freddy had picked that moment to stumble in, bleeding from a scrape on his leg. Mama gave up the argument to tend to her baby boy, passing him the old hand-me-down teddy to quiet his screams, Georgie having given up comforting toys long ago. He still played with his soldiers sometimes, wedging his way underneath the back porch, arranging his men just so in lines meant to master every enemy. The best part about those games was he could leave them and come back, sure in the knowledge that all would remain the same between visits. Mute lookouts, waiting for his hand to direct them.

  Miz Oleander’s eyes had cut to Georgie, standing silently nearby, almost like he was here tonight, and she called him over with a tilt of her head. He had left Mama with the nearly five-year-old crying baby and followed the woman of the house into the parlor.

  A heavy hand had landed on his shoulder, and she’d leaned close to whisper. “Tomorrow night, you be in Mari’s room at eight o’clock. Corner by the bed. Stand quiet, boy. All you do is watch. You wanna touch yourself, put that shit off until you hit your pallet. If you pop a boner, say your willie wakes up and wants to play, and you see Grover wants some of that, you stand there, and you take what he gives you. But, you do not touch.” Her breath made a fetid cloud around him, stuffed full of ashtrays and old meat, choking him with the foul that rolled from her mouth. “All you do is watch and be quiet. You do good, I’ll pay your mama for her extra tonight.”

  So he had been ready to stand and watch. Had watched an empty bed for an hour before Mari led Grover into the room. Turning into the room, she stared at Georgie and shook her head, her expression sad for a moment before she looked over her shoulder to the john, going back to work and lighting up the room with her smile. Fingers walked their way up Grover’s shirt to the top button. Her voice low and sweet, rich in a way Georgie hadn’t heard from her before, she said, “Tell Mari what you want, baby. Tell me what makes you feel good.”

  Grover stared at him across the top of Mari’s head, reaching back a hand to quietly close the door. Without taking his eyes off Georgie, he told Mari, “Strip, honey.” Firm. His voice was not sweet, and not mean. Just firm. No nonsense. “It’s lesson time.”

  Positioning a now-naked Mari sideways on the bed, head away from the corner where Georgie stood, Grover tugged her legs until her bottom was right on the edge. With her feet to the rail holding the mattresses in place, he spread her legs wide, exposing her to Georgie’s eyes. “What’s your job, boy?”

  Having been coached while Mari undressed, Georgie answered quickly, “To watch and learn, sir.”

  “Exactly right, son.” For the next three hours, Grover instructed him on the proper names for every part of a woman’s privates, their faces side-by-side hovering over that sweetly-scented flesh. Showed him too, how a woman might like to be touched and why. How that would change given the situation. Taught him how a man could learn to read the desire and adjust their approach accordingly, giving everything that was needed.

  Mari’s crimson-nailed fingers slid into view and, as instructed, held her intimate lips open, flower petals spread wide so Georgie could discover the beautiful secrets he’d suspected lay underneath all the coy playacting the women did for the men who came to the house. Allure beneath the coarse familiarity with the other women when it was just them in the house. When the man finally smoothed on the lambskin condom he’d brought himself, Georgie’s willie—cock, his mind provided, using the word Grover taught him—woke up, as Miz Oleander put it.

  And it was staying awake. Throbbing, pulsing, brushing against the fabric of his undershorts, he knew what the man was looking for. He’d looked for it often enough himself in the last couple of years, lying in his pallet or a bed if one was available, fingers working his flesh. First two fingers, then as he grew up, and grew, a handful, then more than he could span. With a grip that dragged and teased by turns, he’d discovered things about himself as he imagined it was the hands of the women parading in front of him every day.

  Now he was watching the act itself, Grover’s ass muscles tightening and releasing, pushing his hips forwards like the dogs did when they got knotted up in the front yard. Georgie’s cock demanded something he’d been told not to do. Ordered to ignore. He could barely see Mari underneath the man, she was enveloped by his mass, only her thighs, and lower legs visible, splayed wide while he moved against her.

  Inside her.

  Grover had pulled him close to watch the first time he stuck it in her. Glistening in the lights left burning on either side of the bed, her sex had closed accommodatingly around the man’s member. Him enveloped in her, her enveloped by him. Joined at the hip in a way Georgie hadn’t ever considered.

  “Watch her face.” The hissed words startled him, and he pulled himself from the wash of recent memory to see Grover had straightened his arms, lifting himself off Mari, while still wedged into her hips and moving. “See that look, son?”

  Mari’s cheeks were flushed, mouth open, lips making a perfect “O” that her smeared lipstick distorted. As Georgie watched, her neck extended, pushing back and he looked down to see one of her hands shoved between the two bodies, moving with purpose where Grover was pushed into her. “See that look?” Georgie nodded, instinctively knowing in his role of observer that his voice at this moment would break the spell Mari’d cast over herself.

  “You know how it feels when your cock spills over your hand? When you can’t breathe for the beauty of the thing you do to yourself? When your entire being compacts down to the heat of your hand on your cock, tension in your fingers around the rigid shaft, the explosion of goodness that shoves itself out of you?” Georgie nodded again.

  “She’s there, son. Watch her come. Women are beauty incarnate when they climax.” Grover muttered, his voice soft, crooning almost. “The most intimate thing they can give a man is this knowledge. You’ll know her in ways most of her clients don’t when this is through.”

  With a cry, Mari’s other hand flew up, fingers flexing around Grover’s shoulder and her entire body stiffened, it seemed her muscles were tensing to the point of pain. She cried out again and jerked. Then Grover put his head on her shoulder and moved faster, the familiar slapping sound echoing around the room, seen in action for the first time and understood. The power behind the movement, the need to finish, physical demands bringing bodies together violently in a way that didn’t seem to hurt at all. Grover grunted once, then again, and then rammed hard against her body, holding still. Georgie held still, too.

  Minutes passed, and Grover slowly relaxed, Mari’s hands moving up and down his arms as her breathing became labored for a different reason than before, this being the weight settling on her chest. Finally, she wheezed, “Shitfire, he went to sleep.” Georgie watched as she wiggled sideways, letting Grover slide off and face-first into the mattress.

  Seated on the edge of the bed, she looked at Georgie, and he knew what she saw. Knew it and was embarra
ssed because while he hadn’t touched, his willie—cock—didn’t care, spilling in his undershorts instead of his hand. “You okay, Georgie Porgie?”

  God, I hate that nickname, he thought as he nodded.

  “You sure?” She peered into his face and seemed satisfied with what she saw. “Okay. You can go on now. Go get cleaned up.” Said matter-of-factly, this took the sting out of her seeing the wet spot on the front of his pants. “I’ll tell Ollie how well you did, Georgie…” she paused, then changed it, “George.” Giving him ownership of an adulthood he didn’t know he wanted. “You did really well. He liked it a lot.” Chin up, he grinned at her. “He’ll want you here again.” At the thought, his willie—cock—jerked in his pants, and she saw the movement, giving him a wide grin before tilting her head at the door. Her legs closed, cutting off his view of her sex—pussy. “Go on now. No free shows tonight.”

  ***

  George, age fourteen

  George stood over the boy lying on the ground underneath the swing set, seats and chains still moving wildly side-to-side from the scuffling activity ended only moments before. Jaw throbbing, he gritted his teeth in an attempt to hold the tears at bay. George needed to not get into trouble again, or Mama said she’d make it so the job at the pharmacy was history. Him working was how he kept himself in school clothes these days, with all Mama’s advances that went for booze and Freddy cutting deep into her earnings.

  At least he’d won. That might be as usual, but this boy was way bigger than him and rumored to be the meanest badass in town. Or at least in the seventh grade. Coulda went down either way, and no chance would the pharmacy want me on if I was sportin’ a shiner. Still shaking out one fist, lessening the sting in his knuckles, he glared down, watching the boy’s eyes flutter as he came back to himself.

  “Hey,” George barked, and the boy cringed, shoulders rounding down. Yeah, he’s beat, George thought. Now to make sure he wouldn’t be coming back for seconds.

  “Told you once already. Gonna tell you one more time. You do not. Lay hands. On a woman.” Sabrina Rotain sobbed over near the slides; her girls had circled around her, cooing over the bright red outline of the boy’s hand on her face. Leaning in, George tried to channel some of the asshole his mom’s most recent good time boy brought to the room. He hissed, “You don’t remember this lesson, and we have to conduct a second conversation regarding these issues, then boy,”—he toed the boy’s ribs and shook his head when that provoked a high-pitched squeal—“we will have a problem the like you’ve never imagined.” He toed the boy again, the boots he wore having enough point to be uncomfortable. “Now, need to know. You get me, boy?”

  Angry eyes glared up at him, mouth bloody from a leaking lip but it hadn’t taken much to take his opponent down. George knew being held back a year helped a lot, making him the oldest in their grade. His raising also helped, weekends of moving disruptive johns along having given him ample opportunity to hone these skills. He pulled back his foot in a threat and the boy yelped without being touched, then said, “Yeah. Hands off. I got it.”

  Taking a step back, George lifted his gaze and glanced at the ring of faces pressed close. No friends of his in this group. The son of a whore didn’t get invited to sleepovers and birthday parties. But, it didn’t look like this boy had a posse, either. Every face turned his way would have been just as pleased to see George on the ground, and he made a split second decision, sticking his hand out, ready to help the boy up if he would only accept. It hadn’t been a beat down because George didn’t like the guy, just needed him to understand his actions weren’t acceptable. If the boy could get past that, they might find things in common.

  After a moment, then another, the boy gripped his hand and George hauled him up, then retained his hold, using it to pull the boy closer. “I’m George. George Bell.”

  “Ralphie Lewis,” the boy said, pumping their hands up and down once.

  “What the fuck did she do to rile you?” George asked as if they were alone on the little kids’ playground. “Sabrina don’t normally do anything wrong. Head down, watches her feet as if she’s walkin’ across hot coals most of the time. Takes care of her sister.”

  “Called me a faggot.” Ralphie’s face screwed up, flushing red as he remembered to be pissed off.

  “So?” George’s hand dropped to his side, and without thinking, he fingered the outline of the knife in his pocket. Four-inch switchblade, lifted from asshole’s pants two weeks ago, still not missed. Not returned. Wouldn’t be. Taken in trade for the man laying hands on George, throwing him against the wall when he’d stepped between the asshole’s fists and his mother. A life lesson in self-preservation because George could have laid a hurting on the man, but had held back when he saw his mother’s frightened face, pulling his last blows, so the dickhead only needed ice and rest, not a breathing tube and hospital.

  “She called me a faggot.” Voice raising in pitch, Ralphie sounded incredulous at George’s ignorance of the insult’s impact. As if the worst thing a woman can do is undermine the confidence of a man. “Me.”

  “You a gay boy?” George tipped his head, his hard gaze around the ring scattering their remaining audience. He watched them retreat, most already having gone back to their regular cliques and in-groups, chattering voices detailing how things had gone down for those unfortunate few who had missed the actual action. “Suck cock, or take it up the ass?”

  Ralphie’s eyes widened in shock. “NO!” This was shouted, and if the kid had fallen down dead of a stroke like Mister Nondall last year, George wouldn’t have been surprised. With a red face, and an angry expression twisting his mouth sideways, the kid looked more pissed now than when he’d been beaten and on the ground, groveling in the dirt at George’s feet.

  “Then what the fuck does it matter what that little bitch says?” George was quiet when he spoke, keeping his voice guarded, making Ralph pay close attention to hear him. “Insults are just that, a little kid’s way to poke a dog. It’s up to the dog how they want to counter that poke. Or if they even wanna react. Such a small thing.” He tipped his head to one side, looking Ralphie up and down. “One little poke with a little stick that, if the dog can get to it, could be broken in two easily. A swipe of a paw, or the snap of jaws, stick’s gone, but kid stays, now maybe looking for a bigger stick. Damn dog ignores things, and that kid goes away. No reaction means no fun, and that kid’s out the door, looking for a good time somewhere else.”

  He leaned closer before continuing. “Dog doesn't ignore those little pokes, those little jabs? Well then the kid might pay the price, earning a chomp or butt whipping in the middle of the fight, but that dog is gonna lose the war.” Straightening himself, he still stood half a foot shorter than Ralphie. “Don’t be the dog that gets put down because of a little kid unable to control herself.”

  He gestured at Sabrina, then back to Ralphie. “Don’t worry about getting into trouble for smackin’ her. She’ll leave it because she likes me and won’t want to get me in hot water for fighting again.” Leaning closer again, he confided with a sideways grin, “Don’t know if you caught this, but I fight a lot.”

  Ralphie laughed, a startled yelp escaping him when his split lip stretched, the burn of that showing in his face. “Yeah, you got moves. I suck, though. You didn’t have to do much.”

  “Shit happens, I take care of it.” George shrugged. “Back to the dog and the stick and the little kid that don’t know better than to poke that happily sleeping dog. Don’t be the dog, dawg. Be the bigger man.” He reached out, gripping the boy by the shoulder and shaking him gently to-and-fro. “Ralph.” Renaming him, giving him that taste of adulthood granted to George last year by a whore. “Ralph Dawg.” He winked, leaning close as if to whisper a secret. “Watch the master, man. Leader of the pack.”

  Walking over to where Sabrina stood, he reached out and looped an arm around her waist, tugging her perky knockers up against him. She took a breath that swelled her chest, rubbing those sweet thing
s against him again. “You okay, baby?” His question was soft and quiet, for her alone, and at her nod, he smiled slowly, watching her eyes widen slightly. “Good, baby. That’s good. You still wanna hook up tonight?” One stunned nod later and he gave her a full-on smile, her lips parting involuntarily as he pulled a gasp from her. “Pick me up at the pharmacy? Six o’clock?” She was a sophomore, drove a pickup, and at fifteen had a hardship license.

  She nodded, and he gave her a squeeze, changing the trajectory of their encounter with three words. “It’s a date.” When he said those words, they were a promise, whether the girl knew it or not. Dates weren’t hookups; they were more. “Don’t be late, baby. Don’t be a bad girl. Be my good baby.” That got him a shiver, and he gave her another squeeze before turning back to Ralph. With a wave, George steered Sabrina across the dirt and grass towards the high school where he’d kiss her stupid before leaving her and heading back to the junior high building. Tonight, whether she was good or bad, she’d be sucking his cock, so he could give her his mouth like this now.

  ***

  George, age sixteen

  Tense, George held himself still as the man leaned into his mom, forearm in her neck, holding her immobile where he’d forced her against the bedroom wall. His mom shook her head in response to a question hissed close to her ear, and then closed her eyes tightly when the man roared, “What in fuck were you thinkin’, Coralie? What in actual fuck were you thinking? You know better, woman. You don’t party with the enemy.”

  Her head shook again, the movement weaker, as were the pushing motions of her hands against the man’s barrel chest. Short and powerfully built, with arms bulging in the middle like whiskey kegs, the man held her there a moment longer before releasing her, holding a hand to her shoulder to steady her as she leaned over, coughing. Twisting to look over his shoulder at George, the man gave him a chin lift before asking, his tone casual, “Georgie, how you doin’, boy?”