Turilyn

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a true story. The lady gave me permission to use her real name, but I prefer the alias I used when I wrote the first draft.

Submitted: August 26, 2015

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Submitted: August 26, 2015

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Turilyn was a prisoner. She wasn't held by chains. She wasn't locked behind bars. No. Turilyn was trapped in the most secure prison of them all, the prison of polite society.

She lived under the thumb of her domineering mother in a rundown house on a derelict farm. Her father had long ago abandoned the family, leaving behind an old car perpetually in need of repair. Her friends had married or moved away right after high school. Her last companion, her scruffy dog Pinecone, was run over by a truck on the highway out front.

Of all of Turi's bad days, Sundays were the worst. She was aware of her shackles most keenly in church. Everything there seemed so phony. The friendliness was a charade. The people were just going through the motions. It made Turi want to scream, but you don't do that in church. You act nice. You nod to the fat lady whose name you can never remember. Her bony husband gives you a peck on the cheek. You know what he's thinking by the look in his eye, but you don't dare say anything. You smile. You persevere. You suffer silently as the bonds of society chafe tighter and tighter.

Turi's big break came when her Aunt Myrtle got her a job across the lake at Krauss department store on Canal Street. It was only a stock clerk position. The pay was paltry, but it beat anything Turi had ever made on the North Shore. Besides, it was her first taste of freedom.

For a while, she roomed with her aunt uptown on Camp Street between Peniston and General Taylor. It was pleasant enough, but it wasn't what Turi really wanted. She needed a place of her own. She diligently saved every penny until she had enough to place a deposit on an apartment in the Quarter.

Many large French Quarter houses had loft apartments in their attics. In ages past, they had been used by servants, but by Turi's era, circa 1960, they were the haunts of Bohemian culture. The apartments were rented to college students, Beatnik poets, starving artists and Bourbon Street bartenders.

Ironically, Turi's first full day of freedom came on a Sunday, the only day of the week that she didn't have to work. She was up bright and early, too early to do anything outside, but already the oppressive heat of August weighed heavily on the city of New Orleans. There was nothing to do but open all the windows for cross ventilation and hope for a breeze.

Turi found that the coolest place in the room was the floor and the coolest dress was none at all. Sprawled flat on the hardwood and dreaming of the wonders that freedom might bring, Turi began to massage herself, slowly, erotically, deliciously.

"I can do it better." a voice said.

Whirling about in surprise, Turi saw a stranger leaning against the wall. He was a man about her age. He was neither handsome nor ugly, just ordinary. He was cleanly shaven, so at least he wasn't a Beatnik. Other than that, his most distinguishing characteristic was that fact that he was clad only in jockey briefs.

"Um … I don't think so." Turi replied.

Since assault and even murder were not unknown in the Quarter, Turi cast about for some means of defense. Fortunately, she was near a fireplace. It had been sealed up decades before when the city had outlawed coal burning, but the hardware was still there. She eased over and nonchalantly as possible grabbed the poker behind her back.

"You'll never know unless you try." he said, taking a step forward.

Turi's grip tightened, her muscles tensed for action. Ever so slowly, she slid the poker around her side, the one out of view of the stranger. She knew any mistake on her part, any hesitation, might prove fatal.

"I prefer it my way." Turi said with all the icy calmness she could muster.

She knew she would only get one swing. She would swing with all her might. She would inflict the maximum possible injury and then bolt for the door to run screaming down the stairs. It was her only hope, and it didn't seem like much of one.

"Well, you can't blame a guy for trying." the stranger said with a shrug of his shoulders.

He then turned and stepped out a window, a fourth floor window! Alarmed, Turi rushed forward. There was nothing below but a stone patio. Had the stranger mistaken the window for a door? Had he fallen to his death?

In absolute amazement, she watched the stranger shinny down a cast iron drain pipe to ground level, cross the street and disappear around the corner, still clad only in his underpants. For a while, Turi stood in the window, naked, in full view of the traffic. She knew people were staring at her, pointing at her. It didn't matter. The total improbability of the encounter kept her frozen in place.

Questions flooded her mind. When did he first notice her? What about her inspired such desire? How long had he plotted the caper? Where did he get the nerve to scale four stories of drain pipe to reach her? Why had he dared risk arrest by walking the streets unclothed? Should she feel flattered that he had braved such dangers just for a chance to be with her?

The poker slipped from her grasp. The heavy clank it made when it hit the floor brought Turi back to reality. Modesty resumed full force. She flung herself across the room and threw open the drawer of the dresser. With a single bounce, she plunged both legs through a pair of panties which she drew tightly to her waist. She folded her arms across her breasts and collapsed flat on her back in bed. Her heart pounded. Her breath came in gasps.

"Freedom has its downside," Turilyn thought, "but it still beats going to church."

Copyright © 2008 - 2015 W.C. Bell; All rights reserved.


© Copyright 2017 Whiskey Charlie. All rights reserved.

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