Saving Grace

I wrote this story because I wanted to know if I could write in the first person and make the character believable. I think I did, and I like how it turned out.

For those who have seen my earlier work, there are no chicks with dicks here. There is a fight.

*****

Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody

I've got some money 'cause I just got paid

Now, how I wish I had someone to talk to

I'm in an awful way.

-- Cat Stevens, Another Saturday Night

It was Saturday. I was sitting in a booth at the back of Finnegan's Folly, nursing a bourbon. Alone. Again.

It was no one's fault but my own. I knew it. I just didn't like it very much. I was spending the night trying to figure out what it was about me that made every relationship brief and ugly.

I was good looking, the guys on the latest job told me all the time, right before I hit them for grabbing my ass. Tall, lithe (right word, I'm pretty sure), strong (I can punch well above my weight), nice tits and ass (look, don't touch without my permission), and a killer face (except for the crooked nose, which I got defending my kid brother's honor). Everyone started excited, anxious to find out if I was packing silicone. I'm not. My tits aren't big; they are firm, definitely more than a handful. After a couple nights of sweaty, torrid sex, they all stopped calling. Darla, the woman next door, said I was too aggressive. Guys, especially, liked to at least think they were in control. I don't understand. What's wrong with getting twisted and bent in interesting directions if you get your rocks off? I always did. None of them seemed to understand.

Here I was, sitting in a booth with Mr. Daniels as my date. It was sad, really, with all the fresh meat in the bar, male and, yes, female. I believe in equal opportunity. Lots of knit shirts over tight jeans, with bulges in all the right places. I was making myself miserable. Time to go.

I drained the remains of my drink--the one I allow myself every day--to ease through the crowd toward the door. There was a knot of tantalizing flesh in my way. I was tempted to grab something. I reminded myself I didn't like it done to me, so I behaved. I was nearly past the crowd when a svelte brunette in cargo pants and a snug wife beater raised her glass at the end of a joke, guffawed in a 'look at me' way, and stepped on my foot. Her beer flew up, drenching her shirt, giving everyone a clear view of her upturned nipples with their large areolae. One poor sap, with no sense of self-preservation, laughed, getting the dregs of the beer in his face. The brunette turned to me, with the slightly red face and defocused eyes that said she'd traded her inhibitions for the beer.

"Clumsy bitch. I'll kick your ass."

I controlled myself with great difficulty. I wasn't angry, the insult was pedestrian and partly true; I am a bitch, but not clumsy. Control was required because part of me wanted some fun. The thought of showing the lady the difference between a jab and a right cross, both of which caused split lips and loose teeth, made intelligent choices hard. I didn't need another interview with the local cops; they lost their sense of humor when I was involved. Instead of standing over her prone, bloody body, waiting for her to get up--so I could knock her down again--I smiled. Likely, it was worse.

"I'm sorry," I said, hoping I sounded sincere. "I need to watch where I'm going. Can I buy you another beer?"

"Too late, cunt," the brunette drawled, more from alcohol than heritage. "I'm going to wipe that smug look off your face."

I knew what was coming, so my face was conveniently out of the way when she threw her punch. It all went wrong when the waitress walked into the fist and collapsed on the floor.

My friends, of whom I have a few, tell me my reflexes are quick, my instincts are good. Others, the majority, say I have a short fuse and don't know the meaning of a proportional response. Fuck 'em.

I put my knee into the brunette's crotch, seeing the woman's eyes cross, her mouth contract into a puckered 'O,' which made the evening worthwhile. Because my instincts are good, I ducked the clumsy punch from a guido, and decked him with a left he never saw coming.

Things got interesting after that.

------

Five minutes later, the waitress and I were sitting under a table watching people who ought to know better discover they had no idea how to fight without getting seriously messed up themselves. I saw blood and teeth on the floor, along with the brunette and a couple of guys curled around their crotches. Then the cops showed up to calm things down with expertly wielded truncheons. Once the mêlée was over, and most of the crowd hauled outside, a cop peered down at us, crooking a finger in an invitation to come out. He recognized me.

"Winsome. I should have known. Why are you down there, instead of standing over people crawling on the floor looking for their dignity? A fracas like this, I expect you'd be in the middle, if not starting it." The cop seemed amused.

"She didn't start it," the waitress said, standing up to get in the cop's face, which was an interesting feat as the cop was over six feet, and she was maybe five-six. Her brown eyes flashed, dark against a pale face framed by elegantly wild chestnut curls, the only blemish a spreading bruise under her left eye. Her breasts, bigger than mine, bouncing entertainingly in her bra, pushed out aggressively, making the cop step back. I had a flash impression of my green eyes staring into her brown orbs, a delicate hand stroking my sun bleached locks.

"That one," she pointed at the brunette who was walking crookedly out the door with a female cop. "She started it. She tried to hit her," the waitress waved a hand at me, "and hit me instead. The fight started right after that, so we got under the table, out of the way."

The svelte brunette turned a bruised face toward me, her eyes furious. She opened her mouth, but the cop pulled her arm; she stumbled out the door. An ignoble end to an unnecessary beginning. I stifled a grin.

"You want to press charges?" the cop asked. "Won't make much difference, I think. Two other people already said she fights dirty. I imagine she'll get thirty days for assault and drunk and disorderly. And I thought you were a nasty piece of work, Winsome."

"I want to go home," the waitress said. The cop nodded, gave me a wary look, and left. The room became agreeably quiet; I could hear the faint clicking of the clock over the bar.

The owner, who's name really was Finnegan, brought two large tumblers of bourbon to us, along with a towel of ice for the bruise. We sat in a booth, sipping the liquor. I'd have to forgo my next day's drink to keep my promise. Before the silence got uncomfortable, I held out my hand.

"Felicity Winsome. My parents had an odd sense of humor."

"Grace Knightley," she took my hand firmly. It tingled. "My parents were just as odd. I've seen you in here before. Usually alone." I winced. "Thanks for helping me."

"You're welcome. I don't like people with more muscles than brains. The bitch, excuse my French, was asking to get kicked in the coinpurse. I'm surprised no one seems to have done it before. I'm glad you're not seriously hurt." The bruise on her cheek was arousing.

"Well, the putain, excuse my English, also has more money than brains or muscles. She's been coddled and sucked up to for as long as I can remember. She thinks everyone has to hang on her every word. Though, I think she'd hope 'oh, my cunt' was ignored." Grace flashed a smile that caused a further tingle. I was confused. I wasn't used to being the one on the receiving end of appreciation, especially from another woman.

"Come home with me," Grace said without preamble. "I live a couple of blocks from here."

"You don't have to do this," I said. I did want to go home with her. She excited me, but I wasn't going to turn a potential good thing into a mercy fuck for either of us.

"You could have left me lying on the floor and enjoyed yourself." Her face was serious. "I saw the look in your eyes. But you hauled me under the table, out of the way. No one's ever stood up for me before, Felicity. Don't think I'm asking you because I feel obligated. But I, well, I think you're sexy as hell and I'm horny. What do you say, huh? Let's go fuck ourselves blind."

All this was said in a rush as if she wanted to get it out before she changed her mind. I didn't want to seem eager, but I found myself standing and holding out my hand. "Not blind, Grace. I plan to keep my eyes open the whole time."

------

I was approaching exhaustion. The clock on the floor--it had been on the wall when we started at eleven-- told me it was nearly three-thirty. We'd been at each other since Grace locked the door to her apartment. Our clothes lay in a tangled trail from the door to the bedroom. I recalled the journey down the short hall; it had taken an hour, an hour of fingers and buttons and zippers and wet pussies and hungry lips and stiff nipples and tongues in all the right places for just the right time.

The clock was difficult to see; I had to squint, because I was looking at it over Grace's sweaty stomach and breasts while I ran my tongue along her swollen pussy, stopping often to suck at the engorged clit; it was bigger than I expected; very savory. It was also very sensitive, if the moaning and thrashing were any indication. I bit the erect nub like I was testing a piece of al dente pasta, just hard enough to feel the resistance. Grace screamed. She grabbed my ears, pulling me into her crotch so hard I cut my lip as I raked my teeth away from the clit. The tang of blood and pussy juice popped my cork--again. I sobbed into the fragrant join of her legs, feeling my pussy drip with yet another orgasm as every nerve in my body fired at the same time.

We hadn't started out that way--gently. When we made it to the door of the bedroom, I'd pressed Grace against the jamb, probing her pussy with my fingers and her mouth with my tongue. She responded like I'd always dreamed, wrapping herself around me, running furrows down my back, digging her nails into my ass, pushing back hard, banging her thigh against my pussy while I fingered her to near collapse.

As she sagged, I picked her up, tossed her on the bed, and threw myself on top. The springs groaned as the mattress flexed to near breaking. I thought to spread her legs for a missionary trib, if she was ready. I was surprised to find myself on my back, my own legs splayed, with Grace on top, her pussy sliding over mine in a liquid squishing that began pushing all my buttons, making lights pop behind my eyes as we both came.

That had been hours ago. We became more inventively aggressive as time went on, which was why the sheets were on the floor alongside the clock, and we sported bruises along with a little blood. Grace's small frame contained a ferocity that left me pummeled, battered, abused. I was in heaven. Each time we scissored or fingered or licked there was an urgency in the coupling. I had five inches on her in height and at least ten pounds in weight, but I'd never been with anyone, man or woman, who treated me like this. Like I wanted; like I deserved.

Around four, we lay on the remains of the bed, licking the sweat from our breasts. Grace turned on her elbow to favor me with a smoldering gaze. I think I actually cringed.

"You are truly felicitous. For me, anyway." She traced a finger through the droplets between my breasts, around my navel, into the matted hair above my swollen clit. "People think because I'm short and 'delicate' I like sex the same way. Fuck that! I like banging cunts, the harder the better. You split my lip."

"Yeah," I said, moderately embarrassed, mostly because I was excited by the blood from my own lip and my nose. "Sorry about that."

"Sorry? This is the most fun I've had in a year!" Grace slid a finger into my pussy, finding the spot of rough flesh behind the clit, massaging it slowly. I lost focus for a moment. When I came back, she was grinning at me expectantly.

"Do you like fighting?" she asked. "Like those women in MMA? Who hit each other and roll around on the mat?" Her eyes lit with a lecherous glow. "I do. Watching it, anyway."

I wasn't sure how to answer the woman who was scratching another of my secret itches. "I've gone a few rounds," I admitted.

"Did you win?"

"Sometimes." I felt her heat rising. "More than I lost." I ran my finger along the dark curls at her crotch.

"Did you ever fight naked?" Grace's evil grin spread across her face. "I've watched a few videos on the web. With naked women fighting and fucking. You ever do that?"

"Once," I said, watching her carefully. My finger went into her pussy; she opened her legs for me. She didn't speak, waiting for me to explain. "It was, uh, arousing. We went five rounds wearing only gloves, punched each other silly. Got a room and finished the fight in bed." I rolled onto my back, remembering the best night of my life--until now.

Grace ran her finger deeper into my cleft. "You never did both at the same time?" I shook my head. She rubbed the inside of my pussy with a firm, yet gentle finger. "Do you want to? Have--what's it called--a fuckfight?"

"I've thought about it." I stroked her pussy as she did the same to me. "You want us to do that?"

"And ruin my nails?" Grace held up her dripping hand, mock outrage on her face. "No." Her fingers went back to work. "But I'd watch you do it with someone else. As long as I get to fuck you afterwards."

I lay back, my fingers in her wet folds, feeling myself lift away as she worked on mine. Would I do that? For her? With her? Yeah, definitely.

Later, Grace asked, "What exactly do you do? For a living, I mean. I have a pretty good idea what you like to do in your spare time." The fingers continued their hypnotic motion; I had to stop her so I could answer.

"Fuck, woman! Let me breathe at least." I kissed her, to which she responded with passion. After a few minutes, I answered. "I'm an electrician. Commercial stuff. I'm working on a building downtown."

"Shocking," Grace purred, putting another finger in my pussy.

I flipped her head over heels so we lay face to crotch, mashing my lips and tongue against the slick flesh, inhaling her intoxicating scent.

"I'll show you shocking," I replied, astonished I was speaking, even if it was dialog from a bad novel. My standard repartee during sex was usually grunts and groans.

She bit my clit, just hard enough to make the lights pop again. I locked my legs around her head harder that I probably should have; she did the same for me. Pressed to each other's pussy, we ravaged the sensitive vaginal folds without regard for how many times we came. I don't remember passing out, but I awoke at six to find myself face to face with Grace, who snored softly against my shoulder. I laid my head on hers and wondered when it would all fall apart.

------

Our schedules were opposite. I worked days, Grace worked nights, mostly. On the days when I didn't work--weather, no materials delivered--or when she had a night off or on Saturday, we met at her place and fucked each other like it was our last day on earth. I took her to my apartment one night, but Darla called the police because she thought I was being attacked. Grace lived in a detached apartment; besides, no one in her building cared what we did to each other. During the next month, we developed a mutually haggard appearance: mild bruising, signs of no sleep, a tendency to hesitate before sitting down. This was the longest time I'd been involved with anyone since, well, a long time.

Neither of us did anything seriously stupid, though one day we had a rather nasty fight over something small. I said things I later regretted and was sure the affair was over. I'd screwed it up again. To my utter surprise, Grace met me downtown when I got off work to buy me dinner. She apologized before I could, after which I stumbled through my own apology. We barely made it to her apartment before we ripped each other's clothes off, fucking so hard we both called in sick the next day. Instead of resting, we fucked all day and into the night. I was a mess in the morning, barely able to walk. I was even nice to the site foreman.

------

Saturday night, four weeks after that first fateful evening, I wandered into Finnegan's Folly for my bourbon and some flirting with Grace before she got off. After which, we'd both get off. The play on words, silly as it was, pleased me. It was late; the bar was mostly empty, people had gone to places that stayed open longer. Finnegan slid my drink along the bar, refusing to look me in the eye. I took a sip and paused.

"Where's Grace?"

Finnegan pushed a cocktail napkin at me. "You gotta understand. Her father owns the building."

The writing was neat, compact, made by someone who'd spent a lot of time practicing. It was nothing like my own mostly illegible scrawl. I'd tried to have a neat hand, but the more the nuns whacked my knuckles, the less I cared about perfect cursive. I sipped as I read.

'Grace and I are at her place. Join us. Unfinished business. V'

"Who's V?" A knot began tightening in my stomach, because I was pretty sure I already knew.

"That woman, the one who hit Grace instead of you? Who go arrested? Her name's Valerian, goes by Val. She's a mean one, Felicity. I'd have called the cops, but Grace told me not to." Finnegan looked away. I didn't blame him.

"How long?"

"An hour, maybe less."

I didn't exactly run to Grace's building. I tried to be rational, tried to think of a plan. My last foreman told me planning was a growth opportunity, right after he told me I could be a really good electrician if I figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I consider that a defining moment, because I didn't hit him, and I didn't get fired. I needed a plan, but all I saw in my head was Val's face turning red while I squeezed her neck like a pimple. It wasn't much of a plan; at least it was simple.

Grace lived at the back of the complex, in one of two apartments that formed the rear of the central courtyard in their own building. The other tenant was off on an extended trip, making things convenient for Grace and me. And now for Val.

I took deep, calming breaths as I walked through the garden someone tended with more enthusiasm than skill, forcing myself to think of other things besides stomping the shit out of Valerian. Three men lounged on the covered porch along the length of the building. They were carefully tonsured and fashionably rumpled. Any was take-home quality. I changed my mind when one grabbed my ass and another grabbed a tit, while the third watched with a stupid grin on his face. It wouldn't have made me mad if they weren't so bad at it. No technique, just grab and grope. I'd had better feels from the arthritic old man who sold produce on my block.

I slammed my foot on the instep of the man behind me, hearing something snap as I twisted the man in front around in an arm lock. I dislocated his index finger. I looked for the third man who was already halfway across the garden at full speed. I went inside.

Grace sat on her couch, the only real furniture in the living room aside from the small home theatre on the opposite wall where we watched porn and sexfight videos when we were too tired to fuck. The woman, the one with the red face and bulging eyes in my plan, was pacing the thin rug. Curiously, she looked relieved when I walked in.

"Finally. You took your time. I was beginning to think you weren't coming. That would have been disappointing." The woman's voice was thick, sultry, hypnotic. In spite of my anger, I felt my crotch tingle. The woman didn't go any further; the tingle evaporated.