The 14 year old and the butcher

I’m not a piece of meat

When I was fourteen I really wanted a Saturday job. Really wanted one. I grew up in a small village so I cycled round, from shop to shop, asking for some work. Eventually I struck gold. The local butcher in the village next door. He was married with a toddler and a baby on the way. The job wasn’t glamorous; I cleaned the cold storage, cleaned the delivery van, made deliveries on the butchers bicycle, boiled hams and made sausages. I dressed in clothes I could crawl around the back of the van in, literally scrubbing the floor on my knees.

The butcher was full of banter. His lovely, beautiful, pregnant, wife came in every Saturday.

Every Saturday as I swept the shop floor he would find a way to trap me against the butchers block, bending me over it as he pressed his crotch against by back. I could feel his erection pressing into me. He did it in front of customers (male). He did it in front of the guy who ran the garage out back (male). He never did it in front of his wife.

I worked there for 2 years. I was 14.