THE PHOEBE YEARS
Author's Note/ Well, to make up for how long Chapter 4 took, I'm going to get this one out pretty quickly. Notice to all NBC lawyers: I don't own Friends but I'm not making any money! Also, the readers should be warned that this story has super sized angst with a side of curly fries (the fries are mine, though, you're stuck with the angst).
Chapter 5: What Has To Be Done
I'm sixteen today. Well, whoopie for me.
Phoebe Buffay listened to the manager with growing sorrow and anger. We're sorry, but we have found another person who meets our expectations to a greater extent. I am so sorry a job couldn't be found for you here. Phoebe knew the guy didn't want to tell her the bad news. He could tell from her clothing that she was poor and probably living on the streets. He knew that a job, a well paying job, meant more to her than almost anything. But she didn't get it. Rot in hell, bastard. You had your chance to do a good deed and you blew it. I'm out of here.
Phoebe left the manager's office and entered the supermarket. People pushed their carts down white aisles, putting food and other items into it. Meals would be prepared with that food. Large, hot meals, with plenty for seconds and dessert.
If they realized how desperate I am, would they give me some food?
Phoebe liked to think they would. Since her mother had died, leaving her homeless and broke, Phoebe had been living far from privilege. But, now that Sidney was gone
Dead
she was barely surviving. Getting a job at the supermarket could have saved her. It would have given her a steady flow of money to buy food with, and maybe even a blanket to ward off the cold. But that hope, like all the others Phoebe had nurtured while on the street, had died.
She past by rows and rows of fruit. Bright, vibrant, and life giving. Phoebe needed food. She didn't need it in the way that a teenager coming home for a snack needs food. Her attempts at begging had brought in less and less money lately, and she didn't have anything to eat. She hadn't eaten a thing yesterday, and she didn't think she could survive for long like that.
She could take the fruit. She could smuggle out a single banana. How would it hurt the store to lose something so small? The alarm wouldn't be set off because Phoebe would find a secluded spot to eat inside the store and stash the peel. It would all be so simple. A mother with her child riding in the cart was right behind her. Best to let them pass. Phoebe didn't want anybody stopping her.
She moved to the right and slowed down. The mother and child went right past her. There was an advantage to being poor: if you wanted to sneak around, people tried not to notice you. Now is the time, Phoebe thought. Slowly, she edged towards the rows of bananas. She would just take one and be off to eat it. Just one.
"What are you doing?"
Phoebe whirled around in surprise. Standing there was a man somewhere in his fifties. His hairline was very far back, and what hair he had left was gray. He had a slight potbelly and a kind of pudgy face. He wore a tan suit and some very expensive-looking shoes. He was eyeing Phoebe intently. Had he spotted her about to take the banana?
No, that wasn't it. There was something in his eyes that was familiar. Had she met this man before? No, she hadn't. It wasn't actually his features she remembered; it was the look coming from his eyes: lust. He was looking over her body like a hungry bloodhound. Phoebe had been forced to get rid of the baggy pants and shirt she had used to wear. Now she was wearing ones that were too tight. So tight that they gave this man a very nice view of her cleavage. That look in his eyes was something Phoebe dreaded. It was the look she had received from Creepjob and Jake. He wanted her body to be his own.
"I wasn't taking anything," Phoebe said quickly.
"I don't suppose a girl like you could afford it, anyway," said the man.
He walked closer to her. Phoebe knew he couldn't try to rape her in the middle of a grocery store, but she shrunk from that gaze.
"Leave me alone," she said.
Even in her own ears it sounded weak. It made this man smile. "Tell me, what's your name?"
She didn't want to tell him. She didn't want to give this guy any more knowledge of her than he had just by looking. "Ursula," she said at last.
The man took another step closer. And another. "Well, Ursula, I'm Thomas Jones. I'm a decent, Christian man. I volunteer at a homeless shelter several miles. I've grown so I can sense people like you, who are down on their luck."
"The only thing you sense is your dick," said Phoebe.
Thomas Jones's face grew stern.
"That's not a nice thing to say, Ursula, especially to a man who can help you."
"You can't help me," said Phoebe.
"Oh, but I can," said Jones, a twinkle coming into his face, "We're in a grocery store, after all. When I meet someone down on her luck financially, and in such a place, it is my sacred duty to get her whatever food she needs."
He took a step closer to her and examined the curve of Phoebe's breasts through her T-shirt. "As long as she understands," said Jones, "that I have needs that cannot be fulfilled by food."
"What you need is a punch in the gut," said Phoebe.
Desperately, she tried to keep up her tough girl attitude, but Jones wasn't buying it. "What would you say to two hundred dollars worth of food? Enough cans of soup and preserved fruit to last you a while, no doubt?"
Two hundred dollars! Phoebe had never had that much money at one time in her life. But, this guy was a pervert! He may have been older than her stepfather, and not as strong as Jake, but he was still that same guy: he was one of the many forms of Creepjob. She would never let him do anything! She would-
He reached out and clasped one of her breasts. Jones just kept his hand there, waiting for Phoebe to react. She didn't. He began to stroke it. Still, Phoebe did nothing.
"Well," said Jones, "I think you can spare five minutes for so much."
Jones moved the hand to her ass and gave it a squeeze. Phoebe should have screamed or slapped him. She should have kicked him in the crotch and told him to go to hell. But she just stood there, and was both surprised, depressed, and disgusted to hear her mouth say the words, "All right."
She was led out of the supermarket by Mr. Thomas Jones. Before they left, he loaded a cart full of canned food, as well as buying Phoebe a can opener. He paid the cashier, and Phoebe didn't pull back. They went to the parking lot and loaded the stuff into his trunk, and Phoebe said nothing. He took her for a ride, and she did nothing. She sat in that car for fifteen minutes, fourteen and a half minutes more than enough time to back out, but she just sat there.
At last, they came to there. It was a motel, like many Phoebe had passed by. The walls were mildewing, the rooms were extraordinarily cheap, and there were probably roaches everywhere. As Jones led Phoebe inside, they passed a woman in black leather pants and a gold bikini. Her face look forty, but her body was still in pretty good condition. She was a whore. She had probably been selling her body to strangers since she was Phoebe's age.
This is your future, kiddo. Go with Creepjob (he IS Creepjob, just in a different body is all) and that will be you. You'll spend the next twenty years of your life lying down on ratty motel beds and letting whatever dickhead happens to walk by stick his little self into you.
But that food! I'm so hungry. It will just be this one time.
That's probably what that woman said on her seventeenth birthday: just this one time.
Phoebe's thoughts were entirely elsewhere as Jones paid for a room and led Phoebe to it. Upon entering, Phoebe felt like she had just passed into a landfill and taken a bath in whatever liquid happened to pool up in there. There was filth everywhere. But, neither of them were planning to stay long.
Suddenly, Phoebe was pushed down. She landed on a mattress covered in blue flowers. It smelled like a cat's litter box. Jones/Creepjob began kneeling on the bed. He said something, but Phoebe didn't catch it. She was concentrating on the blue flowers.
Creepjob's hand came to her body again. They pawed over her flesh like hunting dogs. They fondled her in places she thought she would rather die than let him touch. Her shirt was yanked off of her (no matter what his form, Creepjob never undressed her easily) and her breasts were in plain view. Creepjob turned her over to face him. His face was leering with unsuppressed desire. His hands rubbed over her breasts and tweaked her nipples.
His head leaned down and licked the side of her face. With utter disgust Phoebe felt his slimy saliva left behind. He continued to lick her face, her lips, her oh-so-bare breasts while his hands undid her pants and slipped them down. Then, Creepjob got busy on his own clothes. His shirt, suit, pants, and shoes all ended up on the floor. He was completely naked.
Quickly, Phoebe closed her eyes, but not before the image of Creepjob's pimply, chubby, and FILTHY body was burned into her brain. She kept her eyes closed and thought of flowers. She thought of flowers as his erection (tiny, but just big enough to work) pressed against her vagina. Phoebe just kept thinking of flowers as Creepjob actually became INSIDE of her.
Then, the intensity came. It was not pleasure, but it wasn't all pain. There was plenty of pain as Creepjob's dick scraped against her tender flesh, but there was also sheer intensity. It felt like she was a balloon being filled with air. The pressure was growing greater and greater in her crotch, and it was spreading through her body. She felt warmth, sickening like a sticky summer day, spread through her. She felt her body heave up and down, up and down. Creepjob's penis throbbed inside her, grating nerve ending and sending bolt after bolt of shock through Phoebe's body. Her entire being was filled with pitching vibrancy. She groaned and screamed, and she kept silent. She didn't want her body to be doing this. Her body's bucking and turning was mortifying. This man, this Creepjob, was making her do this.
Then, it stopped. Creepjob pulled away. Phoebe just lay there on the bed, panting. Flowers, she thought, blue flowers. Yes, there are only blue flowers in this world, even though you can feel his sticky cum clinging to your legs. There are only flowers here even though your vagina aches like a giant Charlie Horse. I don't care if that Creepjob was on me, through me, IN me, there are only BLUE FLOWERS HERE!
Phoebe cried. She cried and cried until there were no more tears. Her body was no longer her own. Creepjob had it. He had made it buck and groan and respond to his urges. He had been inside her, and had taken something so precious from her. Creepjob, after all these years, had gotten his sick little thrill.
Author's Note/ Well, to make up for how long Chapter 4 took, I'm going to get this one out pretty quickly. Notice to all NBC lawyers: I don't own Friends but I'm not making any money! Also, the readers should be warned that this story has super sized angst with a side of curly fries (the fries are mine, though, you're stuck with the angst).
Chapter 5: What Has To Be Done
I'm sixteen today. Well, whoopie for me.
Phoebe Buffay listened to the manager with growing sorrow and anger. We're sorry, but we have found another person who meets our expectations to a greater extent. I am so sorry a job couldn't be found for you here. Phoebe knew the guy didn't want to tell her the bad news. He could tell from her clothing that she was poor and probably living on the streets. He knew that a job, a well paying job, meant more to her than almost anything. But she didn't get it. Rot in hell, bastard. You had your chance to do a good deed and you blew it. I'm out of here.
Phoebe left the manager's office and entered the supermarket. People pushed their carts down white aisles, putting food and other items into it. Meals would be prepared with that food. Large, hot meals, with plenty for seconds and dessert.
If they realized how desperate I am, would they give me some food?
Phoebe liked to think they would. Since her mother had died, leaving her homeless and broke, Phoebe had been living far from privilege. But, now that Sidney was gone
Dead
she was barely surviving. Getting a job at the supermarket could have saved her. It would have given her a steady flow of money to buy food with, and maybe even a blanket to ward off the cold. But that hope, like all the others Phoebe had nurtured while on the street, had died.
She past by rows and rows of fruit. Bright, vibrant, and life giving. Phoebe needed food. She didn't need it in the way that a teenager coming home for a snack needs food. Her attempts at begging had brought in less and less money lately, and she didn't have anything to eat. She hadn't eaten a thing yesterday, and she didn't think she could survive for long like that.
She could take the fruit. She could smuggle out a single banana. How would it hurt the store to lose something so small? The alarm wouldn't be set off because Phoebe would find a secluded spot to eat inside the store and stash the peel. It would all be so simple. A mother with her child riding in the cart was right behind her. Best to let them pass. Phoebe didn't want anybody stopping her.
She moved to the right and slowed down. The mother and child went right past her. There was an advantage to being poor: if you wanted to sneak around, people tried not to notice you. Now is the time, Phoebe thought. Slowly, she edged towards the rows of bananas. She would just take one and be off to eat it. Just one.
"What are you doing?"
Phoebe whirled around in surprise. Standing there was a man somewhere in his fifties. His hairline was very far back, and what hair he had left was gray. He had a slight potbelly and a kind of pudgy face. He wore a tan suit and some very expensive-looking shoes. He was eyeing Phoebe intently. Had he spotted her about to take the banana?
No, that wasn't it. There was something in his eyes that was familiar. Had she met this man before? No, she hadn't. It wasn't actually his features she remembered; it was the look coming from his eyes: lust. He was looking over her body like a hungry bloodhound. Phoebe had been forced to get rid of the baggy pants and shirt she had used to wear. Now she was wearing ones that were too tight. So tight that they gave this man a very nice view of her cleavage. That look in his eyes was something Phoebe dreaded. It was the look she had received from Creepjob and Jake. He wanted her body to be his own.
"I wasn't taking anything," Phoebe said quickly.
"I don't suppose a girl like you could afford it, anyway," said the man.
He walked closer to her. Phoebe knew he couldn't try to rape her in the middle of a grocery store, but she shrunk from that gaze.
"Leave me alone," she said.
Even in her own ears it sounded weak. It made this man smile. "Tell me, what's your name?"
She didn't want to tell him. She didn't want to give this guy any more knowledge of her than he had just by looking. "Ursula," she said at last.
The man took another step closer. And another. "Well, Ursula, I'm Thomas Jones. I'm a decent, Christian man. I volunteer at a homeless shelter several miles. I've grown so I can sense people like you, who are down on their luck."
"The only thing you sense is your dick," said Phoebe.
Thomas Jones's face grew stern.
"That's not a nice thing to say, Ursula, especially to a man who can help you."
"You can't help me," said Phoebe.
"Oh, but I can," said Jones, a twinkle coming into his face, "We're in a grocery store, after all. When I meet someone down on her luck financially, and in such a place, it is my sacred duty to get her whatever food she needs."
He took a step closer to her and examined the curve of Phoebe's breasts through her T-shirt. "As long as she understands," said Jones, "that I have needs that cannot be fulfilled by food."
"What you need is a punch in the gut," said Phoebe.
Desperately, she tried to keep up her tough girl attitude, but Jones wasn't buying it. "What would you say to two hundred dollars worth of food? Enough cans of soup and preserved fruit to last you a while, no doubt?"
Two hundred dollars! Phoebe had never had that much money at one time in her life. But, this guy was a pervert! He may have been older than her stepfather, and not as strong as Jake, but he was still that same guy: he was one of the many forms of Creepjob. She would never let him do anything! She would-
He reached out and clasped one of her breasts. Jones just kept his hand there, waiting for Phoebe to react. She didn't. He began to stroke it. Still, Phoebe did nothing.
"Well," said Jones, "I think you can spare five minutes for so much."
Jones moved the hand to her ass and gave it a squeeze. Phoebe should have screamed or slapped him. She should have kicked him in the crotch and told him to go to hell. But she just stood there, and was both surprised, depressed, and disgusted to hear her mouth say the words, "All right."
She was led out of the supermarket by Mr. Thomas Jones. Before they left, he loaded a cart full of canned food, as well as buying Phoebe a can opener. He paid the cashier, and Phoebe didn't pull back. They went to the parking lot and loaded the stuff into his trunk, and Phoebe said nothing. He took her for a ride, and she did nothing. She sat in that car for fifteen minutes, fourteen and a half minutes more than enough time to back out, but she just sat there.
At last, they came to there. It was a motel, like many Phoebe had passed by. The walls were mildewing, the rooms were extraordinarily cheap, and there were probably roaches everywhere. As Jones led Phoebe inside, they passed a woman in black leather pants and a gold bikini. Her face look forty, but her body was still in pretty good condition. She was a whore. She had probably been selling her body to strangers since she was Phoebe's age.
This is your future, kiddo. Go with Creepjob (he IS Creepjob, just in a different body is all) and that will be you. You'll spend the next twenty years of your life lying down on ratty motel beds and letting whatever dickhead happens to walk by stick his little self into you.
But that food! I'm so hungry. It will just be this one time.
That's probably what that woman said on her seventeenth birthday: just this one time.
Phoebe's thoughts were entirely elsewhere as Jones paid for a room and led Phoebe to it. Upon entering, Phoebe felt like she had just passed into a landfill and taken a bath in whatever liquid happened to pool up in there. There was filth everywhere. But, neither of them were planning to stay long.
Suddenly, Phoebe was pushed down. She landed on a mattress covered in blue flowers. It smelled like a cat's litter box. Jones/Creepjob began kneeling on the bed. He said something, but Phoebe didn't catch it. She was concentrating on the blue flowers.
Creepjob's hand came to her body again. They pawed over her flesh like hunting dogs. They fondled her in places she thought she would rather die than let him touch. Her shirt was yanked off of her (no matter what his form, Creepjob never undressed her easily) and her breasts were in plain view. Creepjob turned her over to face him. His face was leering with unsuppressed desire. His hands rubbed over her breasts and tweaked her nipples.
His head leaned down and licked the side of her face. With utter disgust Phoebe felt his slimy saliva left behind. He continued to lick her face, her lips, her oh-so-bare breasts while his hands undid her pants and slipped them down. Then, Creepjob got busy on his own clothes. His shirt, suit, pants, and shoes all ended up on the floor. He was completely naked.
Quickly, Phoebe closed her eyes, but not before the image of Creepjob's pimply, chubby, and FILTHY body was burned into her brain. She kept her eyes closed and thought of flowers. She thought of flowers as his erection (tiny, but just big enough to work) pressed against her vagina. Phoebe just kept thinking of flowers as Creepjob actually became INSIDE of her.
Then, the intensity came. It was not pleasure, but it wasn't all pain. There was plenty of pain as Creepjob's dick scraped against her tender flesh, but there was also sheer intensity. It felt like she was a balloon being filled with air. The pressure was growing greater and greater in her crotch, and it was spreading through her body. She felt warmth, sickening like a sticky summer day, spread through her. She felt her body heave up and down, up and down. Creepjob's penis throbbed inside her, grating nerve ending and sending bolt after bolt of shock through Phoebe's body. Her entire being was filled with pitching vibrancy. She groaned and screamed, and she kept silent. She didn't want her body to be doing this. Her body's bucking and turning was mortifying. This man, this Creepjob, was making her do this.
Then, it stopped. Creepjob pulled away. Phoebe just lay there on the bed, panting. Flowers, she thought, blue flowers. Yes, there are only blue flowers in this world, even though you can feel his sticky cum clinging to your legs. There are only flowers here even though your vagina aches like a giant Charlie Horse. I don't care if that Creepjob was on me, through me, IN me, there are only BLUE FLOWERS HERE!
Phoebe cried. She cried and cried until there were no more tears. Her body was no longer her own. Creepjob had it. He had made it buck and groan and respond to his urges. He had been inside her, and had taken something so precious from her. Creepjob, after all these years, had gotten his sick little thrill.