Author's Notes:
this chapter features girl on girl scenes.
Chapter 3: The Gutter of Omaha
In her dreams, Priscilla was riding the stars on a grand adventure. Everything was like she imagined, escaping Waterbury on a ship destined to go far from Earth. Slumbering atop a moldy pile of tarps in a gutter, the stray girl from Waterbury swam through the heavens of her sleeping mind.
It had been a few days since she fled her hometown, had a regretful encounter with Theo the truck driver, and ran bottomless through the streets of Omaha. Since then Priscilla had to fend for herself with no money to speak of, and only a few personal items and the clothes on her back. She had scavenged through the streets for some time trying to find a place to hide her indecency. Eventually, she settled down in an alleyway amongst other strays in the gutter of the Great Plains Republic. She wondered if Theo the truck driver had been right about coming here.
Soon a strange feeling would tug her back into the waking world. That tug was a dirty hand lifting her shirt ever so gently. Eyes fluttering awake Priscilla looked up to see a wrinkly old man. His clothes were in tatters and only a few teeth were between his crusted lips. His hand was on her shirt trying to inconspicuously take a peak at her braless tits.
"Hey!" She tried to pull her shirt out of his grasp, some of the cold air tickling her nips as he managed to pull it above her perky a-cups.
The old man growled toothlessly, despite his age he seemed to have considerable drunken strength. Priscilla's hands slid across his sweaty and dirt-covered arms as they struggled for the shirt. The old man nearly had it above her head when a stiff cane thwacked him across the back.
Releasing her shirt the feral man howled and snarled. Priscilla fell back onto the moldy tarps. She was no cleaner than the hobo who was assailing her, her short blonde hair full of dirt, her skin soiled, and her clothes torn. She looked up to find another old man, this one with dark skin and a scraggly grey beard. The lights and technological trappings of the upper levels framed his looming figure as he glared at the other man.
"I said dis one was mine!" The grey-bearded man whacked the other over and over with his cane.
"This bitch ain't nobody's still you set to get some pork wet. Yew ain't got nothing out here! This is the streets bitch! I'm the man, ya, I'm the man gonna be doing it all up er', yeah yeah? You big guy gonna take care of It? Pussy a bit young for you?" The wrinkly old bumpkin hooted and hollered. His words grew more and more nonsensical.
"Yeah yeah ya ol' coot, ya ain't no younger than me... Get gone now!"
The pair exchanged insults for a time as Priscilla lay on her back and fixed her shirt. There was never a time in her life that she thought a pair of hobos would be fighting over her in an ally as she lay filthy. But life had a way of pulling back the curtains on eager dreams.
"Thanks, Booker..." Priscilla sat up cautiously, her arm held against her shirt over her breasts. There was thankfulness in her tone, but distrust in her eyes as she remained cautious of the man leaning on his cane. He hovered over her with a grin. Booker had a fair few more teeth than the assailant, but it was far from a full smile.
"What I tell you sweet thing, you shoulda been in my hutch last night. Lot less creeps gonna touch on you that way." He playfully tapped on her knee with his cane.
"Oh.... I couldn't possibly intrude..." Her eyes shifted from side to side. There was no way in hell she was taking that loaded offer. She knew enough about Booker that nothing was free from him.
The old man stood silently leering above her.
"I ain't showing them to you again." She glared up at him with her big bright green eyes. In exchange for the baggy utility pants she wore commando now, Booker had demanded a good look at her tits when they first met. After wandering the streets with her pussy out in the open it felt like a small price at the time. But since then she lost count of how many times he asked to see them once more.
Booker whistled innocently as if she had accused him of a grave crime he couldn't possibly be guilty of.
"Damn woman..." he rolled his eyes. "It's not like an old man can be heroic out here in the streets, saving the pretty girl and all." He held his cane nobly and pursed his lips.
Priscilla gave him a coy look and bemused grin, she knew what he was about.
"Plus, I got a good look at him when old Greg back there was pulling your shirt up. HEH!" His laugh echoed across the walls of the alleyway as Priscilla rolled her eyes and jumped to her feet.
Slinging her backpack over her shoulder bitterly she slipped on a pair of scavenged flip-flops.
"Good-BYE Booker." Priscilla didn't bother to look back.
Despite the situation she was in, the girl from Waterbury was not going to be defeated, and certainly not going back to that shithole town. Waterbury was dead to her. She would suffer the underbelly of this city and legions of old hobos to stay away from it.
"Aight sweet thang, I'll see you tonight. Remember you always invited to Casa-de-Booker, HEH!"
Priscilla neither responded nor looked back. It was about time she found a new ally to crash in.
—-
Far departed from the stories of her grandmother, her few short days in its depths had illustrated that Omaha was quickly going to hell. Priscilla could only count herself fortunate that she was here by choice, and not displaced by threat of war like so many around her were. Above her, she could see the bright neons and grav-trains enjoyed by the more fortunate. Her dreams of seeing the stars as foggy now as the toxic haze that separated the Omaha underbelly from the glistening towers above.
As she wandered through the stinking streets she saw whole families huddled outside crowded shelters. The destitute begged passers-by for information on loved ones they had lost in their flight to safety. The whole city was ready to burst as the general mood soured. Soldiers patrolled the streets to try and keep the peace but were met with jeers and insults. No one respected those who represented a government that so readily disposed of the displaced like trash. Priscilla had a feeling their guns and weapons were meant more to keep those here contained than to protect them.
Priscilla observed the soldiers turning a blind eye to gangs of miscreants taking advantage of the situation. Through violence and extortion, they took every ounce from the displaced and helpless they could. No matter how long you stood in a bread line you were not guaranteed to eat any of it. Priscilla had tried and failed numerous times already. It was almost better to starve than have run-ins with the gangs. They ran these streets un-checked, despite the army's presence.
