Dropping her new cotton panties around her ankles, Rachel Morrison perched on the edge of the toilet seat and took a deep drag off the filter of her Camel Light. She didn't need to go, she just needed a smoke. The mill didn't allow smoke breaks though; just two chances a day to take a pee, not counting lunch. Satisfied that she was in the third stall — the only one with a door that locked — she pinched her eyes closed, shifting to find a more comfortable position. Her butt still hurt from last night.
Dwight promised he'd go easy and that she'd like it; but he didn't and she didn't. She felt awkward and stupid, kneeling on the hard, tile floor of his bathroom, tail stuck in the air like a cat in heat. She tried to relax though and let him up her ass. Rocking on the cold porcelain seat, she remembered the way they clumsily bumped together in that ungainly position until Dwight got mad and pounded her across the back of the head, cursing. That's when he really tore into her. She thought she'd split clear in two before he finally shot his wad.
"I'll do better next time, Dwight, I swear. Honest. It's just that I couldn't concentrate. Please don't be mad. It weren't you. Really, it weren't," Rachel promised, her voice cracking with a pleading tone. Her eyes still teared and ears still buzzed from the stinging blows.
"You're damn fuckin' right it weren't me, you stupid cow. I'm givin' it to you ways other women in this town only dream about. And what do you fuckin' do? Piss and moan, 'Ow, Dwight, ow.' I ought to fuckin' lift you again, bitch. That'd fuckin' get your attention," Dwight hollered, drawing back his hand.
BAM! A slam against the stall door made Rachel jump, shocking her mind clear of bad memories. Two — three, open-handed slams rattled the latch in its catch. Huey Lambert's boisterous voice echoed off the dust-flocked gray and pink tiled walls and enamel-painted bathroom stalls, "Rachel Morrison, it don't smell to me like you takin' a shit."
Trapped like a rabbit, Rachel's heart pounded so fast she could scarcely think. She hardly ever did anything wrong; that meant when she got caught it was all the worse because she had no practice lying to get out of it. She didn't even wonder why the shift foreman was in the ladies room. She just held her breath, waiting for what Huey would say next. Maybe it would give her a hint what to do.
"What you doin' in there, Rachel? You ain't smokin' or nothin' are you? 'Cause you know the mill don't allow no smokin' on the premises," Huey pressed his eye up to the crack in the door, looking her up and down. All hunched over there on the hopper with her arms crossed in front of her, she chewed on a fingernail, a half-smoked butt forgotten in her hand. "It ain't healthy for you," he growled. "Stand up and open this door, Rachel."
She couldn't think what else to do so she did what Huey told her, slipping the latch back with a click. Huey pressed the pink door open and held it in place as he stared down at the thin, white panties still on the floor around her feet. Reaching out, he took the cigarette from her, sucking on it, drawing the glowing coal down to the filter. The tobacco snapped under the onslaught. Stepping into the stall, Huey peered over Rachel's shoulder as he flicked the exhausted cigarette into the bowl and blew smoke in her ear. "Nope. I wouldn't say you was in here for a shit."
Cheeks burning in humiliation, Rachel shifted away from Huey but her legs came up against porcelain so cold it felt wet. She staggered to a stop and tried to ignore the foreman's body odor as it slipped around her, cutting off what meager fresh air the rest room offered starting out. She stared at the spaghetti stain on the pocket of Huey's blue poly-blend shirt and tried not to think about how ugly his wide, green paisley tie was.
"Hey, Rachel. What's these?" The toe of Huey's scuffed black dress shoe lifted the panties between her feet. "They your panties, Rachel?"
Stiffly looking down, Rachel squeezed her eyes closed and nodded.
"You like talkin' to men when you ain't wearing panties, Rachel?" Huey pressed against her, rubbing his hand up her bare arm and poking thick, stubby fingers into the sleeveless opening of her dress to feel for a bra strap. "You like havin' men look at you when you ain't wearing panties?"
She shook her head in a quick, jerky motion and tried to shrink away from the groping fingers. "No. No, sir," she whispered.
"Oh, I think you do," he said, grabbing her by both arms with big, meaty paws, sweaty with excitement. Extending his thumbs, he rubbed the sides of her breasts. "I think you like it so much, you want me to take them panties there and hold 'em for the rest of the day so all the men here can look at you not wearing 'em. Ain't that right? Now, you bend down there and pick 'em up and hand 'em to me. Right now."
Huey stood so close, Rachel had to kneel more than bend. Her finger tips touched the white cotton just as her mouth reached the level of Huey's bronze, Peterbilt belt buckle. He shifted his slacks so she could see he was starting to stiffen up. Stepping out of the underwear with barely perceptible movements, she pinched the cloth between her index and middle finger and stood up, panties dangling by her side.
"Now you hand 'em to me, like a good girl."
Rachel held out the panties, feeling Huey's moist, beefy fingers close over her hand in a clumsy caress as he took the garment from her. With the same hand, he lifted the skirt of her dress and ran the panties up her bare leg. His breath hissed between his teeth as he pressed the back of his fingers against her pubic hair. Rachel suppressed her shudder of repulsion.
"I'm gonna to be watching you all afternoon, knowin' you ain't wearing no panties. Is that gonna make you wet, Rachel? You gonna need your panties back to keep from drippin' all over the floor?"
Rachel swallowed tightly, waiting for him to finger her. Instead, Huey stepped out of the stall. Balling her panties into his pants pocket, he ordered her to walk in front of him, back to the mill floor and back to her machine.
Her bench mate, Florence looked up as the two of them came out of the hall leading to the lavatories, Huey trailing Rachel like a dog sniffing sex. Florence watched as Rachel crossed the floor and Huey stopped to stand on the perimeter, watching until Rachel slipped onto her stool. Leaning over, Florence stopped Rachel's hand before she could push her ear plugs into place. "What's that asshole up to?" Florence yelled over the clatter of machinery.
Rachel shook her head, stuffed the ear plugs in place and began stitching. The rest of the afternoon, she crouched over her machine, forgetting how the metal stool hurt her ass where Dwight whooped her. She didn't dare look up too often because when she did Huey was there watching her, his hand moving in his pocket. Rachel shook Florence off again when the second scheduled pee-break of the day rolled around at three o'clock. This time, she had to go but the protection provided by three dozen women, all vying for four bathroom stalls, didn't make up for her sudden craving for privacy. Twisting a stray thread around her finger until the nail turned blue, Rachel decided to wait until she got home.
At five, the shift ended. Cleaning off her machine, Rachel wiped up the last few threads and dropped them in the scrap bin at the end of the bench before heading to the time clock to punch out. Quickly, she scanned the lobby for Huey, holding her coat tight in front of her and sticking close to Florence. The clock stamped her card with a familiar mechanical stump and still no sign of Huey. Thinking about home and a nice warm, private bathroom, Rachel slipped her arms into her quilted down jacket. When the doors to the parking lot opened, a chill wind drafted up her skirt like an icy chimney. Twelve more feet. Eight more feet. Six more.
As the throng of workers hit the double-glass entry doors, they surged to embrace freedom. Grown men broke from the crowd, running like children from the last day of school toward their rusty pick-up trucks and second-hand cars. There was an occasional whoop and holler as workers exchanged their last social jibes of the day but mostly the men were intent on their evening migration to cold beer and comfortable recliners. The women lagged behind in tired conversation, resigned to the messy houses, evening meals and notes from school that awaited their homecomings.
