Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Author: Pervitron
Title: Fisher of Men
Summary: Lets just say her standards in men are,well . . .  very
exacting
Keywords: MF
   Fisher of Men by Pervitron copyright (c) 2008
   I can feel the break in the conversation when I walk in.  It's 5:30 on a
Friday evening, the bar is crowded with traders, and I can feel the
attention of the men as I stride over to the bar and take an empty seat at
the end.
   I know how to feel an audience.
   I don't dress for attention -- I don't need to.  Professional business
wear can't hide my beauty.  My skirt isn't even an inch above my knee.  My
white blouse has only one button undone.  After all, I'm a nice girl.  My
wireframe eyeglasses would give most woman a prim, cold look.  But not me.
Men look beneath the clothes, they've spent years undoing blouses and
skirts, pulling off shoes and unzipping jeans, in hopes of finding the
fleshy joy that lay hidden like a wrapped present.  They've learned to
judge the potential that lies beneath the conventions of dress.  They've
learned that vamps and sluts are often disappointing without their props,
and they've learned that the plain ones, the ones that seem shy and unsure
of themselves can be like animals in the sack.  So they look beneath my
dress and they study the shape of my body.  They stare at me as I order my
drink.  They notice the shape of my lips as I take the first small sip.  I
know that every man in the place is thinking the same thing: blow job lips.
   They're talking about me.  Their eyes roam over me like searchlights,
and now they're discussing the finer points of what I have to offer. 
Conversations that a few moments earlier were about the market are now
about me.  I'm looking down at my drink, and I can hear the whispers.  I'm
alert to the laughter, the dirty innuendo and the fragments of their talk.
The whispers ride like surf spray over the noise of the bar.  ". . .  piece
of ass . . .  get me somma that . . .  check out the lips . . .  get my
dick inside some of that."
   I don't mind.  I don't mind at all.
   I take another sip.  I look past the men at the bar and I see a big
black man nursing a beer at one of the tables on the far wall.  Our eyes
meet for just a second and he studies me calmly.  No smile.  The place is
packed, there are men huddled around the tables, elbow to elbow - but he's
sitting at a table with three empty chairs.  All the other men in the bar
are wearing suits, but he's wearing a long red T-shirt and baggy blue
jeans. He's slouched way back in his seat, but anyone that noticed the long
legs and high knees would know he's tall.  Very tall.  His impossibly long
arms are hooked over chairs on either side of him.  He's laying back in a
lazy, almost effete manner, but you would never, ever call a man like this
effete.  Even across the room, you can see how big he is, and you know by
looking at the cut of his jaw and cheekbones that beneath his loose clothes
his body is ripped with hard, sleek muscles.
   You see, women can look beneath clothes too.
   He's still looking at me, but I turn my attention back to the men at the
bar.  There are a few women scattered among them, but they're no
competition.  They trade too, they join in the men's talk about market
makers, upgrades and downgrades but even across the bar I can tell that the
men aren't interested in them.  It's like when women in a sports bar talk
about football -- the men might listen but they're really not interested in
what they say.  The market is like football -- it isn't the rules but the
competition, the inside game that men know about, and woman don't.
   But I do.
   I sip my drink through the narrow straw, I let my primped hair fall down
about my face and I listen.  And watch.  Their eyes still swing by me while
they talk about the market.  There's one man in particular that interests
me.  He's part of a crowd of about a dozen from the same firm.  He's a bit
taller than the others.  His blue suit hangs loosely on his shoulders, so I
know he has a flat hard belly.  Good.  He has short auburn hair, and his
eyes are incredibly bright -- even from across the bar I can see they have
the light blue of stained glass.  I catch his eye, there's this jolt
between us, and I look down at my drink shyly.  He joins in their talk, but
his attention remains on me.  It's like he knows the game well enough to
talk about with his frends without really paying attention.  I think he's
the boss or something.  The men give him just slightly more space, and when
he tells a story the others don't try and top it.
   The bar is noisy, there's the glassy sound of drinks mixed quickly like
magic.  I look down at my drink and listen to the talk.  Someone is about
to make a move, I can tell by the slight drop in the noise level, and the
gathering energy of a few men working up their courage.  Who will be the
first?  I feel myself getting antsy inside, and I look up at the guy with
those blue, blue eyes.  Just a little nudge.  I don't usually do that, but
tonight I'm feeling jumpy.  I don't want to put up with guys I don't want
tonight.
   I see one guy start to move out of the corner of my eye.  He breaks off
slowly.  He's uncertain about it, his buddy probably said: listen if you
don't I will.  That's the way it happens with a lot of these guys, they
start talking to me but I can tell they're just following through on
something they said to their buddies.  I don't want even one of those guys
tonight, so I look over at blue eyes again.  But he's already on his way --
fast.
   He comes over and smiles.  I sense for a moment the other guy doing a
180, but just for a moment, because I just lose myself in this guy's eyes.
They have a blue that's almost unnatural.  I look real close, looking for
the arc of a contact lens, because I know traders are vain.  All natural
brilliance.  "My name's John."
   "Michelle." I take his hand, it's big and bony the way a man's hands
should be.  John has a heat about him, I want to look down and see what his
hands look like, because they have a roughness that I didn't expect in a
trader.  But I'm still trapped in his eyes.  He's still smiling, there are
long crows feet at the edges.  I can see he's older than I thought, but
there's a difference about his age.  His skin is tight, his cheekbones are
sharp, so his eyes shine from a deep hollow.  His whole face seems
sandblasted.
   I look down.  A lot goes through my mind the first second I meet a guy,
the whole story of his life gets crystallized in my head.  With him, it was
life as a cattle ranger, body hardened like saddle leather from years on
the dry, windy plains.  The real story comes soon enough as we begin to
talk.  For him the tight, leathery skin came from three marathons this past
year, and the polish of the wind came from long training runs near his
beachfront house on the Jersey shore.  Still the story remains, these are
just details to hang on it.  I keep the story in my head.  I trust my gut
about men.
   "What sort of work do you do, Michelle?"
   "I'm an administrative assistant.  At Goldman." Nothing threatening, a
careful sense of pride because I didn't say secretary.  It's around this
time that most guys need some adjustment.  When I tell them what I do it
seems to give them some license.  I always keep the shy girl thing going, I
don't hold their eyes too long, and I make sure to keep the talk clean. 
After a few minutes most guys get impatient, they come on too strong.  I
mean I like aggressive guys, but I won't have a guy that thinks I'm easy,
who thinks he's getting a blow job for the price of a few drinks and a cab
fare.
   I want much more than that.
   John was good though.  A seat opened next to me and he sat down, but not
before asking me.  I like gentlemen.  It was so easy with John, I had so
much to work with.  He kept looking at my legs, I gave him plenty of
chances.  I just met his eyes briefly, and looked away real quick as he
began to smile, like there was part of me I wanted to hold in reserve. 
When I looked away I scanned the rest of the bar.  I still had everyone's
attention.  The men were watching John's move, hoping for a fumble they
could pounce on.  His group had moved to a table, next to the tall lanky
black man.
   "What are you drinking."
   "Ginger ale."
   I don't want him to think I'm a party girl.  I let him know in subtle
ways that he'll have to work hard, and really care about me.  I tell him
more about myself.  What I really love is modern dance, and I was good
enough to get a second call for a few Broadway shows.  I thought he would
say something about my legs then, but he surprised me.  "You know you're a
really pretty girl."
   "Oh that's so . . .  sweet," I touch his hand for just the tiniest
second, just a little whisper of a touch and then I look up at him.  I meet
his eyes, and for the first time since he came over, I give a full, wide
smile.  I give him one brief flash of the highbeams, just to show him I
liked that.  Pretty.  I liked that a lot.  I knew he was already thinking
of me as a keeper.
   I was halfway there.
   Slowly, we draw together.  He puts his hand on the back of my chair, and
while he tells me about his work I lean in towards him a little.  He's a
big wheel at his place.  but I really don't listen very closely to the
words.  I listen to the sound of his voice.
   I want to let him know I like him, so I ask: "You're not married or
something, are you?"
   "No.  Divorced a year now." Just a hint of sadness.
   Good, now I can talk about myself.  I like my boss, but I hate my job,
and all I really want to do is dance.  I tell him about the auditions, I
let him know I think I'm better than the other dancers, but they seem to
get all the parts.  I hint around that last part.  Can't seem bitter.  I'm
a good girl, someone who won't do what those other girls do.  I just give
him the outer edges of that, because I want him to fill in the details, he
has to bite hard to get all of the hook.  I have to give him room, so he
can build the story of me.  I feel him looking through my clothes,
imagining me wrapping my legs around a pole, thong stuffed with bills. 
Thinking: she could do that, but she won't.
   Yeah, that's it. . .
   "How about you.  Is there anyone?" He's a cool operator, he makes deals
for a living, so the little catch in his voice when he asks me tells me a
lot.
   "Yes . .  but . . ." I look away, letting the "but" hang like a stone
between us.  It's nearly 6:30, men start to leave.  They have to walk
around the bar, and pass behind me on their way to the door.  Every one of
them gives a last look, seeing me together with John, wishing they'd been
quicker.  The opposite side of the bar is empty now.  The big black man is
still reclining in the corner.  And he still watches me.  "But . .  well .
. .  yeah, I have a boyfriend." I tighten my lips.  I swallow a sorrow.
   John leans in a bit closer.  "Something wrong between you?"
   This is where it starts to get intense.  "I mean . . .I" He had his hand
on the back of my chair, but now he lifts it up and puts it on my shoulder.
"He . .  he . . .  gets mean . . ." My lower lips trembles, and I can feel
my heart beat harder.  ". . .  sometimes."
   He slaps his drink down on the bar, the bartender looks over at us. 
John leans into me.  "He's mean to you?" I can feel the change in his
voice, it's lower, now there's more of him in the sound of anger.  "What
does he do to you?"
   It's gotta come out slow.  I don't say anything at first, I look at John
and let him see the wetness of my eyes.  "He's usually . . .  nice." I have
to defend him, I have to try to put a good face on this.  Men want loyalty.
A good woman hides her hurt.  "He just gets crazy sometimes.  You know . .
."
   "I know?  No I don't know.  Crazy?  You mean he hits you?"
   We're both breathing heavy now.  My lip trembles, and he's all tense. 
He's got this Prince Valiant thing going.  I take a deep breath.  I look at
my watch, and take a gulp of my ginger ale.  "Listen, you don't want to get
get involved in this." I start to take money out of my purse.  "Thanks,
you're a nice guy."
   "Look, you don't have to put up with him.  You deserve better."
   "I mean I can't . . .  " What I say gets lost in little sobs.  "I gotta
move.  I mean I'm supposed to meet him here." I make a move to get up, the
sound of the bar recedes for a moment as men glance at us.  They sense
something begin to unravel.
   John puts his hand on my shoulder.  "Just wait.  Don't go." The black
man in the corner sees this and he pulls himself upright from his slouch.
   "He'll get crazy if he sees you."
   "I don't give a fuck.  I'll take care of him." John spits the words out.
   I still get up from the seat.  He has his hands on me, but it's not like
he's going to hold me down.  He gives way, but gently, still holding on. 
"You don't know, John.  I mean he's really big.  He's mean." I have to give
him a chance.
   "Guy like that doesn't deserve you.  Don't worry, he won't do anything
while I'm around." His face is red, pressure is rising inside him.  I can
feel it.
   This buzz starts way down low inside me, like it's surging up from the
ground.  Like it would lift me up.
   Out of the corner of my eye, I see the black men get up from his chair
and he's so tall, it takes a while for him to stand all the way up and
start to move.  I still hold John's eyes.  He still has his hand on me. 
"You don't want this John.  Please."
   "Try me."
   It begins.  The black man is right behind him now.  My heart is slamming
in my chest, because I can see in John's eyes all he doesn't yet realize.
The black man speaks.  "What do you think you're doing - hands on my girl
like that?"
   Things slow way, way down.  I see this cloud dim John's eyes even before
he turns and looks up.  Billy's about four inches taller than John, and
when John turns he has to look up, the back of his body tilts towards me a
bit.  My angle is bad behind him, and I really want to see that first
moment, when a guy looks up at Billy for the first time and he realizes . .
.  I move around John to his right, and I do manage to catch the very last
part of that first moment.
   There's a bead of sweat on John's forehead, his right hand is starting
to shake, but I watch him gather himself up inside.  Setting himself.  I
keep moving past John, right up to Billy, or rather right under him - Billy
is so big and so wide.  Like an oak tree.  And calm now - Billy isn't
shaking even a little bit.  "C'mon Billy, huh?" I reach up to Billy's neck,
I stroke his neck underneath his ear.  "Billy.  Lets go, just the two of
us. . .No trouble."
   Trouble is what this is all about.  The whole bar is silent now, crowds
of men are watching John and Billy.  I stay at Billy's side, he has his arm
on my waist, and I'm leaning close.  I start to sweat.  The silent vacuum
of all this depends on John.  John looks at me, then at Billy, then at me.
This all turns on the story he has.  He has to believe I'm worth a beating,
he has to believe that Billy beats me, he has to believe that the reason
I'm folded so neatly into Billy is because I'm scared, and I don't want
trouble.
   "Yeah baby, we'll leave," Billy says.  My senses are so acute I can feel
the words rise out of Billy's chest.  "Right after he goes, and says he's
sorry for putting his hands on my girl." He starts stroking my face with
his hand and the warmth of his fingers, so long, so hot, leave a trail of
embers on my cheeks.
   Most guys will leave right then.  They see how big Billy is, and how
utterly unconcerned he is with a challenge and they just shrink.  I watch
it happen inside them.  They'll turn and leave, almost running out of the
bar, and when Billy sees that he throws some insults on their back. 
Something they'll remember for months, something they'll hear again when
they try to rebuild their sense of themselves as men.  Billy likes to take
guys apart.  That's the way it goes most times, and that's fine with me. 
Just the square off has me all juiced up for Billy, I want to run to the
parking lot and do it in the back seat of Billy's car.
   John isn't moving though.  His hand is still shaking, and he's looking
at me as Billy strokes my face.  John measures me.  All this needs is just
one more notch on the ratchet.  I look up at Billy and say: "C'mon Billy.
Let's go.  Just you and me." I mix a little sob into my voice.  "Don't get
crazy on me, Billy."
   My story was set inside John like dry brush -- "Crazy" is all it takes
to set him off.  Good girl, sad girl, sex like a mystery mixed within
beatings and tears.  John's hand stops shaking.  And now I knew the story I
saw in John was real -- there was a grit, a windblasted essence to the man
underneath the Brooks Brothers suit.  His eyes settle on Billy and he says:
"I'm gonna kick your ass, motherfucker."
   I knew it: John has balls.
   Billy pushes me off him.  Gleefully, like a kid he says: "Let's see what
you got."
   John points to an exit.  "Out there." The energy just explodes out of
the man.  He starts off like a tank for the back door.  Billy follows after
him, and I follow Billy, my heels unsteady as I try to catch up.  I have to
see this.  It's been almost two months since the last time a guy went for
it, and it's usually over so quick.
   John is first out the door, and as Billy follows through it, John turns
suddenly.  He throws his body at Billy, sending Billy back at the door,
nearly breaking it.  Almost catching my fingers - I was that close behind
Billy.  The door is wood, and there's a pane of glass that cracks from the
bend of Billy's weight.  I'm right there, pushing at the door because I
want to be out there with them.
   It won't be quick this time.  John was smart enough to get the first
shot in - usually the guys wait for Billy and that's a big, big mistake.  I
give up pushing at the door because Billy is still pinned against it.  John
is down there somewhere, and through the cracked glass I can see Billy
hammering the top of John's head.  with every punch, Billy's shoulder pokes
out of his shirt like an anvil blade.  I think the glass will shatter but I
can't move away from the door.  My hand starts fighting with the knob
again. The men from the bar are behind me, they think I want to go out and
stop it -- because they don't know.  If they could see my face, if they
could see my eyes, if they could see the glass fog from my breath -- then
they would see eveything.
   But they still wouldn't know.
   Billy's shoulders stop moving.  I know he's reaching down, going for
John's eyes.  I see John's face rising over Billy's shoulder, and his nose
is all twisted beneath Billy's palm.  Billy goes to punch him with the
other hand, but as he draws back John lets out this shriek and he pushes
Billy to the side, so when Billy swings he misses and loses his balance. 
They grapple like bears, both nearly upright on the little three step
stoop. Now I can push the door open, I hit Billy in the back with it as I
squeeze my body through, snapping all my blouse buttons.  One of my shoes
is left behind on the other side of the door as it closes behind me.
   For just a second the three of us are on the stoop together.  I lean
against the rusted railing, close enough to hear the grunts and smell the
sweat, thinking that in their wild coupling they might throw themselves
against me.  Hurting me, pinning me against the rail with all their
combined weight.  But all at once, Billy makes this noise and I see John's
feet come off the ground.  Billy throws him -- throws him!  -- off the
stoop into the middle of the alleyway
   John is up like a cat, he rolls and gets halfway up just as Billy comes
down at him.  He grabs Billy's leg and pulls him down, and then the two of
them start rolling around in the dirt and garbage.  I step down after them,
silent and breathless.  I walk past the two of them, feeling broken glass
through my stockinged foot, and I move to the brick wall on the other side
of the alley.  I stand far enough away to give them room, but close enough
to smell the sweat of them them down there, punching each other, cursing
each other.  I feel the heat of them wash over me, and that feeling I love
begins to well up inside.
   I love the faces of men when they fight.  The wildness, the sounds that
blow from nostrils that flare like running bulls.  My blouse is torn, my
black bra is open to the alley air, and it just feels so good to know that
these men are fighting -- fighting for me!  -- that I almost can't wait.  I
want to reach down there and frig myself like a dog as they roll around in
the dirt.
   John's face is cut -- some shards of broken glass gouged his cheek when
Billy pushed his face down in the dirt and punched him in the back of the
head.  Men fight dirty when it matters.  Billy thinks he has him now. 
Billy starts to get up, he's looking over at me, and I start to cry out,
because I can see John's eyes, and I know there is more left inside him. 
As Billy starts towards me, John rises and even before he's all the way up
he throws himself at Billy.  He slams Billy face-first against the brick
wall right next to me.
   I'm just a yard or so from them, standing there with my blouse open.  My
mouth is open.  I stare wide-eyed at them.  They look like wolves, and the
wildness of this makes that feeling rush up in me.  It's a special feeling,
it's dark and primitive and unbearably sexy.  I can talk about sex.  I've
told some women about sex with strangers, I've spoken of what it feels like
to be passed around among a group of men.
   But this is a feeling I never speak of.
   It's a feeling that began long ago one day in a schoolyard.  I was in a
circle of children that were crowded around two boys that were fighting.  I
had never seen boys fight before, and I stood there in my little white
school dress, utterly mesmerized.  One boy had the other in a headlock, he
seemed to be trying to crush the other boy's skull with his arms.  All the
other children were yelling -- especially the girls.  The girls were
shrieking the name of the boy they were rooting for, and all the girls had
an excited, almost gleeful look on their faces.  All the girls - except for
me.  I couldn't yell, I couldn't even speak.  I just stood there and stared
mutely at the boys, because something wierd began happening inside me. 
There was something mysterious about the way the boys looked, the way their
tears mixed with blood and snot.  It seemed as if their souls were scraped
away from them, and something raw, something desperate was exposed for all
of us to see.
   The sight of those boys seemed to grab hold of something inside me.  A
strange throbbing began inside my little body that day in the schoolyard. I
was fascinated with that feeling.  In the days that followed I discovered
that if I closed my eyes and imagined those boys, and recalled the laughter
of the girls that surrounded them, that same feeling would come once again.
It would return to me like a welcoming friend.  A secret friend.
   One day soon after that I was standing in front of the TV, flipping the
channels from Barbie to Scooby-Doo and I stopped because one channel had an
old Western on.  One of those fights with broken beer bottles and flying
chairs.  And I just stood there all alone, riveted.  It was like all of me
was just pulled way, way down inside my body, down there in that place
where this special feeling lived.  To this day I can still remember every
detail of that scene.  The men were ugly and dirty, they had matted beards,
but they seemed so strong, so indestructable.  The scene is burned into my
brain because, while I was watching it, for the first time I grabbed onto
the feeling.  I latched myself onto it the way a roller coaster car grabs
the ascent chain, and I knew if that scene went on long enough it would
pull me all the way up.  My mother was screaming at me, but I couldn't look
away from the TV.  She had to kneel down and shake me to get my attention.
And when, finally, I turned to her she saw the dimness in my unblinking
eyes.  She knew that something had fled from me, never to return.
   No, I never speak of this feeling.
   Billy is hurt now, streams of blood dirty with brickdust run down from
his forehead, and now I am where I haven't been for almost a year.  The
last time I thought a guy would beat Billy was the time in Jersey when I
caught some short, squat Italian guy.  Turns out he was a cement worker,
and this guy just refused to go down.  It took Billy almost a half hour to
finish him off, and in the process the guy broke Billy's nose and three of
his ribs.  For a while that night I thought my world would turn, and I
might feel a new man, an even harder man, pushing himself inside me.
   Now it was back, that feeling.  I swear I know what it feels like for a
man to have an erection.  My mouth trembles and I just stare blankly at the
two of them, and all I can feel is this dark underside of me, this tingle
of each and every little hair down there rising up, swelling in the glory
of this: these beautiful fighting men.  I'm looking not at Billy now, but
at John, and thinking to myself: yes, I was right, there is something
diamond-hard inside him.  I knew it.  What will it be like to be under him?
What will those blue eyes look like then, now that I've seen the inner fire
that lights them?
   John is pounding on Billy, the animal comes out of him and he knows to
go for Billy's lower back.  He's so fast, so quick.  It's like he is
opening up inside, and letting some rage spill out of him through his
fists. Billy starts to drop now, his eyes dim and his face slides slowly
down along the wall.  I know men.  I know their insides.  There's a point
in a man when the fight gets beaten out of him, and some instinct in the
gut takes over.  Give up!  You can't win!  Billy is right there at that
spot.  And just then, just as I start looking at John again, comes the most
electrifying sight I've ever seen.
   Billy looks at me, and I can watch -- watch!  -- something rise up in
him.  I don't know what it is, I don't know why it thrills me so, but Billy
grabs onto some part of himself that even I don't know about.  He takes
one, single deep breath, and then he pushes himself off the wall.  And he
straightens up.  And as he turns John sees it too, because his fists stop
for just a brief second, just an instant.  But just a single instant makes
all the difference with men like this.  That momentary hesitation lets
Billy draw back, and when he punches John in the face his fist actually
seems to go through the man.  It's like a lightning strike, one second John
is all spit and fire, and then with one punch -- one punch!  -- he just . .
.  evaporates.  Life flees from John like a punctured balloon.
   I know there's blood.  The magic of this was the faint red mist that
scattered amidst the lightning, and I'm sure there's blood splattered all
over my white blouse.  I'm staring down at John.  My heart stops beating,
waiting for a breath, for any sign of life in the man.  I see the first
rise in John's chest, and now my leaping heart feels like it will break my
chest open.  He's moving slightly.  His eyes blink and I know there is
still a soul inside to make them look at the dirt, and wonder what happened
to him.  Now I can breathe again.
   I look at Billy.  He's looking down at John, and I really, really want
him to turn and look at me.  I love that first look after he wins me all
over again.  But he's still looking down at John, and then he looks at his
hand.  He flexes his fist as if he can't believe what he just did.  He sees
John's eyes open, and I know what Billy is thinking.  He knows that John
saw him almost quit inside and Billy won't have that.  He walks over by
John's head, and pulls his foot back, but before he can kick him I scream
out: "Billy!  That's enough!  He's finished!" He stops and turns to me.
I see the look that I love.  There's just the quiet of faraway traffic
and the beating of my heart.  I'm still standing by the wall, leaning back
against it because my legs are shaking.
   "Oh, Billy!" He's in front of me now.  My man, my fighter.  He touches
my neck with his hand, he brushes my hair back so he can see my face.  His
knuckles are bleeding from that punch, but that same hand that just blew
John away is now stroking my ear softly, so softly, so grateful he didn't
lose me.  I just look up at him.  He looks like shit with all the blood and
dirt, but I see the magnificent man inside.  He starts caressing my cheek,
and I know he's unzipping himself with his other hand.  He's gonna to do me
right here in the alley, and I want him so badly now.  I can't wait for the
car.  The men from the bar look through the cracked glass of the door,
they've seen everything and they're still watching but I don't care.  I
just wanna feel my Billy.  I throw my arms around Billy's neck, I lift
myself up on him and as he picks me up I scream in his ear.  "Oh Billy. 
That punch!  I thought you killed that fucker!"
   It's just me and my man in the alley.  He's rough and yes, I want it
rough, I want the animal.  Some girls like cards, some girls like flowers,
some girls like kisses, but I can't cream up for a man until I see him take
a beating for me.  He's rutting me against the brick wall, his pants are
down at his ankles.  I'm scratching his ass.  I wanna talk to him, tell him
how fucking good he was but he's got his tongue halfway down my throat. 
He's pushing the back of my head against the wall, it hurts but I don't
care because he's making the rest of me feel so good.
   When he pulls his tongue out of my mouth I reach up and dig my nails
into his neck.  I whisper in his ear.  "Guy almost had you, Billy."
   "No fuckin way, cunt." He's breathing heavy, and now he really lays into
me.  He has plenty left.
   "Slow Billy.  Slow." And he slows down.
   Billy is mean, but not to me.
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   I'd love to here from you, no matter what you thought of my story. 
Comments and story ideas are welcome at: Pervitron@Hotmail.com
https://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Pervitron/
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FisherOfMen