Be A Good Girl Ch. 02

"Look at me. Go out to your boyfriend. Show him. Do not look at it; it isn't for you. Do not discuss it with him. I'll be here if he wants his shoes," he puts the magic marker in my hand. "Now go."

I look around like I'm leaving a party and don't remember where I put my purse. I'm dazed and not moving fast enough for his liking. He steers me towards the door, hands on my shoulders like I'm five again. He unlocks the shop, lets me out and locks up behind me. I wobble over to your car. I try the door, but it's locked so I knock on the window.

"Where are my shoes?"

"Just let me in."

The door unlocks; I get in.

"I send you in for shoes. You come back with a pen. You want to explain?"

I shake my head and instead lift up my shirt. You become very quiet. I look out the window and see him standing in his shop door looking at us, hands behind his back.

"Well," you begin. "This is very, very interesting."

I want you to start the car and get me out of here, but instead you ask for the pen. You write a single word below his message. The letters are I, V, and O. Ivo...what does that mean? You pull my shirt back down. I look at you searchingly for some sign, but you are stone.

"Go on," you prod.

"Please don't make me go back in there." I'm on the verge of tears.

You run a hand through my hair. "Doll, you know I'm not making you."

And he's right. I want to go back. I know I shouldn't but I have to have whatever is waiting for me. I take the pen and go back to the shop where he's waiting. He leads me to the bathroom; it's just a dingy washroom with a toilet, a sink and mirror. We are completely out of sight of the front window. For another two dollars he reads your response. When he is done he has a pitying but cold smile.

"You're a lucky girl." He steps behind me so we are both looking in the mirror. "Are you ready for your harmless fun? Read."

I'm reading backwards in a mirror off my own body. It takes me a minute to make full sense of what I say. The cobbler's message is simple, "YOUR WHORE IS TOO GOOD TO FUCK ME? Your response is even simpler, 'NO'. I was seriously wrong about IVO. For such a simple message I have a hard time digesting it. The ramifications are too many to count. He stands behind me watching. Probably getting off on my distress the fucking creep. When I finally make eye contact with him, he is ready.

"So. No more bullshit."

I shake my head.

"So say it."

"No more bullshit."

"What are you?"

"A whore." The words come out like a struck match. I feel them burn.

"Whose whore?"

Clearly in a sadistic bastard contest you and he would finish in a dead heat. It's pissing me off.

"Yours okay, yours. I'm your whore. You win. Can we just do it, please?" Bending, I place a hand on both sides of the sink.

"It's not that simple."

"What?"

"You are a tiresome, annoying girl. All your talking, how does he live with it? You are pretty enough, but the sound of your voice has taken all the pleasure out of it for me. I cannot fuck you in my present state so I suggest you get on your knees and see if your mouth is good for something after all."

On my knees the bathroom tile is cold. I reach for his zipper, but he slaps my hands away.

"Don't touch me, did I ask you to touch me? Put your hands behind your back."

I do as he tells me. He unzipped himself. Drum roll please. He is neither long nor short but like his hands there is something strangely rugged about it. He also isn't lying; I must not do anything for him because he is not at all hard. He drops three dollars onto my lap, and tells me to get to work. Without hands I don't have any choice but to just take him straight into my mouth. I take as much as I can and try to bring him alive, but no matter how I try, he just sits there limp. I take great pleasure in giving head, and this is not good for an ego that's been taking a beating since it walked into this dump.

"Oh my god you are useless. I would never have thought that a three-dollar blowjob could be a rip off, and then along you come. Look at me when I am talking to you."

His hands go to either side of my head, strong and controlling. It's a dizzying embrace. I feel my head begin to move under his supervision, guiding me up and down his length. When he's as far inside my mouth as I can manage he holds me there till my throat begins to contract trying to expel him. I'm familiar with this game. You like it too, but with you I know that if I tap you on the leg you will let me get some air. This is the real thing and there is no safety net. This is clearly more to his liking. His eyes close, and his head tilt back. He begins to grow in my mouth, and I quickly learn that what he may lack in length he more than compensates for in girth. When I was seven I bet my sister I could get a whole orange into my mouth. I did it; I never lost a dare, but I couldn't get it back out. My father had to scoop it out with a spoon. It took forever, and my jaw felt dislocated for a week. That's how I'm starting to feel now. My mouth is open past the point where it's even a little bit comfortable, and after a bit it's going to start aching. I feel drool run down my chin. I want desperately to swallow but it's too big; it's the same feeling as when the dentist won't let you rinse.

I don't know what it says about me that I like it. And hate it. I like it because I hate it. That is me when you get right down to the dirty little center of my soul. The worse I feel the better I feel. There are any number of these paradoxes that can be used to explain me. Sometimes it troubles me afterwards when I'm in the shower alone. He doesn't seem troubled by my paradoxes. Far from it. He is staring down at me now; I'm staring back. I'm tearing and my eyeliner is running, but I don't look away. He clearly loves it. He's a mean son of a bitch and that's just fine by me.

He fills my mouth and holds me there. Longer than before. I will myself to remain still, but he pushes me right up to the point where self-preservation kicks in. He's watching for it and pulls out of me just in time. I fall forward onto my hands gasping for breath while he gets a box of condoms out of the medicine cabinet. He puts it on and tells me to stand up and turn around. I'm back holding onto the sink. He nudges my legs apart and then I feel him touch me. I want to be bone dry. Uninterested like him, but I've betrayed myself. I am anything but dry. The inside of my thighs are wet. I'm a dirty little mess.

"Well, well," he says and dries his fingers on my hair.

I feel him test me and I am so happy. To me there is simply no better moment, and I've really had to work for this one. He is thick and I see the word 'fuck' in hazy red letters in front of my eyes. It's only then that I remember that I have something not insubstantial in my bottom. I feel his cock shifting it up; the two jostle each other like new lovers unaccustomed to sharing a bed. I hear someone whimpering and then realize that it's me. Somehow he pushes until he finds his way into me, and when I feel his belt buckle on my back, I lower my forehead to the cool porcelain of the sink and exhale slowly. The pressure on my tiny hips is ungodly. A shower of one dollar bills cascade into the sink.

I will never be able to say how long it went on, because wherever I was had no clocks. What I know is that he had a wonderful stride, and each time, back and forth, is complete and whole and there is nothing left of me that he does not put his mark on. I lose track of where I am, or whom I am with; there is only my body and this primal thing that is being done to it. I am set to come several times without a thought if he doesn't take a fist of my hair and yank me out of my stupor. We lock eyes in the mirror, and when he brings his hand down on my backside it almost knocks me flat. I'm pretty good with pain, but his hands are gifted. There is a cruelty in his eyes that make me hate him, and that brings me very close. I reach out and feel the orgasm I am going to have; its size and weight; its sharp edges. I reach out to pull it to me, but then have a change of heart. This man has had everything of mine he's getting. It's a lot to sacrifice, but I have always been stubborn about cutting off my nose to spite my face. I focus on the discomfort of having two such large things inside me at one, and use it to push my orgasm away.

We battle for a while. He wants me to come and knows he almost had me. He tries everything he can think of to knock me off my perch. His hand drops under, and I feel his fingers playing with my clit, but I'm dug in and I am not coming now. I can outlast him. His face is red from his exertion. He's old and I am young, and he doesn't have the stamina to win this battle. He begins to get frustrated and takes it out on my backside.

"Why are you fighting me?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do."

"Sorry." I grunt noncommittally.

"You were going to." He sounds bratty and petulant.

"If you say so."

"You were, and then you stopped. Why?"

"I guess the moment passed."

"I want you to." As if to prove it, he picks up his tempo and I have to brace myself for him.

"I can't help you."

"Please." There's a new, longing tone there.

Longing I can work with. "Alright but it's going to cost you."

"You want money? A pair of shoes?"

I have a weakness for shoes, and hadn't thought of that. But I like my idea better.

"No, just get me the magic marker."

"What for?"

"Oh I think you know."

"No, that's impossible I have a wife."

"Well I guess you'll be wearing tee shirts for a couple of weeks just like me. You want this then that's the deal. Otherwise finish fucking me so I can go to dinner."

He slows then stops, and pulled out of me. When I turn around he has the magic marker in his hand. I tell him to unbutton his shirt, which he does, although I can see in his eyes that he isn't sure how he has lost control. His torso is broad and strong, and twenty-five years ago he must have been unbelievable. I take the pen and write ANGIE'S COCK and draw an arrow straight down. I've thought of cleverer things since then that I could have written, but at the time, it was simple, effective and to the point. Plus there is no way he would be able to explaining it if his wife ever saw it. I look up at him and grin playfully. I pop the cap back on and hold it out to him.

The look on his face should be in an encyclopedia. It is a mixture of irritation, admiration, fear and lust. Lust won. He spins me back around, and he is inside me. But this time it is different. We have both made fools of each other and ourselves. We have battled each other to a draw, and called it a day. There is solidarity there. His hands are on me again, but this time they don't batter me. They settle on my hips, and there they stay while he works me into a state that I didn't think was possible with a stranger. I fuck him back, and show him just a little bit of what I really am. That part of me that you helped me find, and that you think is yours and yours alone, but I showed it to him anyway. You were fine about him fucking me, but I think that would have bothered you to know.

When my orgasm came back from wherever I had sent it, my body leaps at it angrily daring me to deny it again. I barely have time to find his eyes in the bathroom mirror to warn him before it tore into me like a claw hammer. Something reaches into me twisting my spine around its fist until I feel my body buckle as it searches for those missing vertebrae. I sometimes see colors and shapes when I come particularly hard. Usually just a blob of color that might look like a flower or a firework, but this is a fucking purple bicycle and the tires keep getting larger until the backside of my orgasm hits and then the whole shape just dissolves, and I am clinging to the sink for dear life. I'd like to say I feel him come, am there with him, but I am in a world of my own...okay, I am in a world and I have no idea whose it is.

When I open my eyes I am sitting on the bathroom floor. His shirt is buttoned, his fly is zipped, and he is smiling warmly for the first time. He helps me up, and gently puts my clothes back in order. He handed me a hairbrush that I hadn't asked for, and watches while I attempt to make myself presentable. When I am done he walks me out to the front. He has the door open before either of us remembers the shoes that brought me here. He goes and gets them, and for no reason at all, I kiss him goodbye. It surprises him, I think.

"I'm sorry," he says. "For..." But he didn't finish.

"Don't be sorry. Don't ever be sorry. Thanks for the shoes." I try to saunter out, but my legs are wobbly and I settle for walking in a straight line.

We are at the end of the block before you say anything. You have pushed the envelope with this one. You know it, and are maybe a little afraid of me now. That's my story anyway.

"Well," you finally ask. "Don't I get a kiss?"

"You're a son of a bitch," I say, not ready to look at you, and turn on the radio.

"Yes, but I'm buying."

Yes you are.