This is a work of adult fiction and should be read only by adults. It is also my work. Although I receive no compensation other than your comments, it is still my work. Please respect this and do not repost it somewhere else without talking to me first about it. If you are not allowed to read works with sexual content, either due to your age or by virtue of the laws in the geographical location in which you reside, please do not continue.
I'd never say that you have to read Betsy's Finest Hour to understand this story, but reading it will tell you a little about where this character comes from.
Enjoy, and if you're so inclined, please let me know what you think. —Alexis
I talk to myself, silently, while he fucks me. It gets me through the night, the cold bricks of the walls, and the freezing puddles at my ankles. It gets me through the five minutes he needs. I pretend I'm being interviewed. This is my story, I tell the blonde bimbo interviewer. You'll be fascinated. It's one of a kind.
Everyone has a story to tell, don't they?
He's grunting in my ear. They usually do. I used to think they were talking to me, but after a few weeks I figured out they were talking to themselves, making believe they hadn't just paid a two-bit whore for a quick alley-fuck. Sometimes they're angry. Bitch. Whore. Take it. They spit when they curse, and I used to wonder who they were angry at. Then I guess I figured out that it didn't matter.
Sometimes they're trying to be happy. Come on, baby. Give it to Daddy. They spit when they do that, too. Like they've forgotten how to kiss.
But most of the time they just grunt. I don't mind. It goes faster when they don't seem to care.
My ass cheeks hurt. He's pounding pretty hard, and my legs are tired. I'm tired. I gotta get out of this, I tell myself every night. It's part of my interview. How I Got Off the Street, Tonight on Nightline. I used to think it could happen. Or I think I did.
Okay, so I don't have a story to tell. So it's not unique, after all. But I've got money for some dinner, and he's done. So it doesn't really matter now.
Until next time.
Come on, baby. Bitch. Whore.