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From: "Matt Carpenter" <paragon38@lycos.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} BFE  Chapter 4 (MM, f-voy, male-prost, blackmail)
Date: Wed, 19 Dec 2001 05:10:03 -0500
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<1st attachment, "BFE-04.doc" begin>

BFE - Chapter 4 (MM, f-voy, male-prostitution, blackmail)

This story is intended solely for the entertainment of adults. 
Anyone wishing to correspond may e-mail me at <a
href="mailto:paragon38@lycos.com">paragon38@lycos.com</a>  or <a
href="mailto:paragon74@hotmail.com">paragon74@hotmail.com</a> . 
I would welcome any comments or reviews.






4



Cadmus.  In Greek mythology, a legendary hero prince by this name
defeats an entire army of fierce, supernatural soldiers by merely
using his well-timed sense of guile.  Under the interdiction of
Athena, goddess of wisdom, Cadmus is commanded to slay a dragon
and then sew its teeth into the soil like so much seed.  From
each planted tooth, a fully armed warrior sprouts forth.  At the
culmination of this unearthly harvest, a bloodthirsty battalion
besets our hero from every direction, intent on tearing him limb
from limb until nothing of his body, mind or soul remains ...


Danny manipulates the joystick effortlessly, the protruding
plastic knob merely an extension of his deft thumb.  With his
other nine fingers, he presses a multitude of colored buttons on
the videogame controller.  One button prompts his character to
kick, another to punch, another to draw his sword or cover up
with his shield.  The correct sequence of buttons pressed in a
small allotment of time energizes Danny's combatant into a
"hyper" state, eliciting a spinning, flurry of mayhem.  The
character's amplified prowess, however, lasts only as long as his
stored energy will permit.  After his power levels have run dry,
the character inevitably succumbs to fatigue and is then easily
dispatched.

My son has been locked into this vicious, repetitive cycle  --
death, rebirth and death again -- for well over an hour now.  I
have been watching his struggle from the sofa while absently
paging through the latest issue of "Historical Perspectives," one
of the many scholarly journals I try to keep up on.  In the
background, a brand new Art Blakey CD pulses through the
otherwise silent evening.  I am subconsciously tapping my foot
along with the rhythmic undertow punctuating Javon Jackson's
tenor sax solo.  I notice that Danny, too, is nodding his head to
the driving beat.

This is a rare Saturday night.  Because I subbed twice at the
X-Zone for sick coworkers earlier in the week, Clare had no other
choice but to excuse me from working my regular Saturday 11PM-7AM
shift.  Otherwise, I would have been logging in 16 hours of
overtime for the week, which according to company policy is
strictly forbidden.  As a supervisor, I am at least permitted 8
hours of OT, but anything beyond that is virtually impossible to
get approved.

Not that I really mind losing the hours.  I've forgotten how nice
it is to just spend a Saturday night lazing around the house with
my son.  In the last several months, I don't think I've once felt
this relaxed or carefree.  With all day off tomorrow, I almost
don't know what to do with so much freedom.

"Damn it!" Danny curses, slamming down the videogame controller
in disgust.  "There is NO WAY to defeat that army."

"Don't swear," I remind my son, but the prompting is basically
perfunctory.  By now, he knows what words just annoy me as
opposed to the ones that I simply WILL NOT tolerate.

"Sorry," he sighs.  "It's just that this game is IMPOSSIBLE."

"Well, don't blame the game," I chuckle.  "You're the one who
picked it out yesterday.  By the way, I don't seem to recall
anyone thanking me for that .."

"Thanks, dad," Danny half-smiles.  "Mitchell knows how to crack
this battle, but he just won't tell me.  And this game is like so
new that it's impossible to find anything about this level on the
internet."

"I know what you need to do to defeat that army," I offer.

"You do not, dad."  Danny guffaws at the sheer preposterousness
of the notion that I, his hopelessly lame father, could know
ANYTHING about outwitting a videogame as complex as "Cadmus,BC."

"I've been watching," I inform him.  "I see what's going on.  You
kill the dragon and then plant his teeth in the ground.  That's
where the soldiers are coming from .. the ones that keep kicking
your butt,"  I add.

Danny is silent, suddenly listening very intently to his
heretofore-lame old man.

"Your mistake," I continue, "is trying to fight the army. 
There's way too many of them, and you don't have enough strength
to kill them all."

"That's why I need to find more nectar and ambrosia," Danny
explains.  "That's what gives me more power and lets me last
longer when I go `hyper.'  If I can just get enough reserve
power, I'll be able to kick their butts.  I just need to find
where there's more nectar and ambrosia hidden.  Hermes will only
give me so much, but there has to be more hidden somewhere. 
Mitchell knows the crack on this, he just won't tell me."

"Can you try something, just for me?" I ask.

"What?" Danny sighs.

"When you get done planting the dragon's teeth, pick up one of
those stones on the ground."

"Do you think something's hidden under the stones?" Danny asks. 
"Like maybe some nectar and ambrosia .. or maybe some magic
armor?"

"No," I shake my head.  "The stone is your weapon.  Just throw it
at one of the soldiers, hit him in the side of his helmet if you
can."

"Dad, no stone is going to kill these guys," Danny laughs.  "They
are like way too tough to be killed by stones.  This isn't that
lame `David & Goliath' game that Aunt Janine has."

"You're not going to kill them with the stones," I ignore his
obvious dig at Janine's fervent religious zeal.

Ever since Janine began watching Danny after school, she's been
covertly and relentlessly evangelizing him.  Terrified for the
state of Danny's eternal immortal soul, she started her crusade
by trying to convince my son to give up his comic books,
videogames and other "secular" interests in favor of wholesome,
Christian activities.  After being confronted for several months
with Danny's obdurate teenage apathy, she's lately shifted gears,
attempting a whole new missionary tack.

Now, instead of lecturing him on the "evils" of his favorite
pastimes, my ex-wife's sister has decided to "fight hellfire with
Pentecostal fire" and "whip Satan at his own game."  At the
suggestion of her church's youth pastor, she's begun buying
Christian comic books and videogames to coax my son away from his
"worldly" diversions.  Despite her intentions, her efforts have
had the opposite effect.

Where Danny was only ambivalent towards Christianity before, he
is now downright contemptuous.  And who can blame him.  Compared
with "real" videogames and comic books, the banal morality
inherent in Christian knock-offs renders the whole religion in a
ridiculous light .. at least in the eyes of a thirteen-year-old
boy.

"The stone's not going to do anything," Danny whines.

"Just humor me, okay ..?"  I put aside my journal and watch as
Danny shrugs his shoulders and begins manipulating the
controller.

In a few minutes, he has slain the dragon for the hundredth time
and sewn its teeth into the open field.  Instantly, armed
soldiers begin sprouting from the earth.  "Okay, dad, now watch
me get slaughtered," he chuckles.  A second later, Danny has his
character pick up a stone and hurl it into the advancing horde.

The cyber-rock strikes one of the warriors on the side of his
helmet.  Suddenly, that same soldier turns around and begins
attacking the soldier next to him.  Apparently, the dragon-seed
warrior has been tricked into thinking the blow to his head
originated from one of his compatriots.  Danny watches the screen
in disbelief.  In another few seconds, all the soldiers have
turned on one another, slaying each other instead of Danny's
character.  When they are all finally dead, my son looks back at
me in utter stupefaction.  "How did you know?" he gasps.

"You should really read that copy of Bullfinch's mythology I
bought you last Christmas," I grin nonchalantly, turning back to
my journal.  "You'd be amazed at the stuff you find in there."

"This game is in that book?" Danny asks incredulously.

"Look up the story of Cadmus," I speak to him over the top of the
journal.  "You might find other stuff that pertains to your game
in Bullfinch's, too."  I go back to my journal, pretending to
read it while basking in the puzzled, slightly awed stare of my
teenage son.  I haven't experienced that look in Danny's eyes for
a few years now, and it feels good .. damn good.



In the last few weeks, my life has experienced a financial
turnaround of sorts.  Although it sickens me to admit this, my
reversal of fortune began with that first disturbing yet
auspicious encounter with Grandpa Munster.  A veil was lifted
from my eyes that evening.  People, motivations and opportunities
that had once been invisible now leaped out at me from every
aisle of the X-Zone's sales floor.

In the 1988 film "They Live," a man stumbles across a pair of
high-tech goggles that allow him to see the world the way it
truly is.  The lenses reveal that shape-shifting aliens have
infiltrated every strata of mankind.  Everywhere the man looks,
the goggles reveal more and more hidden truths about the nature
of the human condition.  Ultimately, this gift of true perception
becomes a curse, and those who wear the goggles begin to wish
they had never been privy to the grim reality behind the blissful
blindness of everyday life.

I'm wearing a pair of those goggles now.  For the first time in
my life, I'm starting to see the people around me as they truly
are.  Before that fateful tryst with Grandpa Munster, I merely
worked my shifts at the X-Zone and then went home.  I never once
gave my surroundings a second glance, much less a second thought.
 But that was then, and this is now ..

Where do they all come from, these intense bleary-eyed men who
refuse to look anyone in the face, yet think nothing of casually
offering another man, a total stranger, $50, $60, $80 sometimes
$100 just to see his erect penis climax in a spurt of semen?  Who
are these men who suddenly just started sprouting from the
asphalt soil of the Stretch, laying siege to the X-Zone, their
eyes peering through the gilded glaze and disinfectant haze until
they find me?  How did I never notice them before -- their hollow
dilated pupils, their paraffin-like complexions, their signature
scent of menthol and retsin?

Every shift now, they wander resolutely into the X-Zone, errant
knights on a quest for the elusive and illusory.  Yes, some of
these men are openly gay and merely cruising for a novel
adrenaline rush.  Many more, however, are --for all intents and
purposes - straight normal men: men with unexceptional families,
unremarkable wives, unruly children, unwieldy mortgages and
unrelenting credit card debt.  Yet, with all the financial
burdens weighing down upon their bent backs, they still have an
extra $50, $60, $80 or $100 to throw away on a transitorythrill.

I still don't understand why these men seem so intent on seeking
me out and paying homage to my ten-inch cock.  But now that I'm
wearing my goggles, none of that matters anymore.

The day after my initial encounter with Grandpa Munster, I tried
convincing myself that I was only imagining the sudden onslaught
of hollow desperate eyes.  I ignored the first few men that tried
to strike up casual conversations on the sales floor, hoping to
put the previous day's misadventure behind me as far as possible.
 But then one of the men was so bold as to flash me a $50 bill
folded in the palm of his hand.

Intrigued, I tried to lock eyes with him, but he would only look
at my hands.  On a whim, I decided to flash him 9 fingers, a code
I thought might convey my price -- $90, just like the previous
night.  Suddenly, as disgusted as I was at the prospect of
another encounter in the pens, I was also curious as to whether
or not this man would deem me worthy enough to take me up on the
offer.  I absolutely expected him to point his shifty feet out
the door.  To my complete surprise, however, he nodded his head
quickly, as if he didn't want to give himself another moment to
reconsider.

"You can pay for the preview up front," I remember telling him
nonchalantly, continuing to re-shelve some videotape boxes while
he hurried up towards Murray at the register.  I overheard
everything that transpired at the counter, making a mental note
of the booth number before he shuffled past me and headed back to
the pens.  I gave him five minutes before I followed him back
into the pens.  To my surprise, Murray didn't even notice my exit
from the sales floor.  Then again, it wasn't odd for me as the
shift supervisor to check back in the pens several times ashift.

When I found the man, he was barely breathing over the groaning
video that blasted all around us.  He extended a wad of bills in
his hand.  I nodded silently to the empty spot next to him on the
padded bench.  He dropped the bills, and I picked them up,
counting them in the flickering light of television screen.  "$20
.. $40 .. $90 .."  I nodded and slid the three bills in the side
pocket of my Dockers.

Without looking at him, I unzipped my fly, pulled down my boxers
and unleashed my half-hard cock.  Concentrating on the video - a
girl-girl affair entitled "Bitch Blanket Bango" - I stroked
myself to full arousal, mechanically pumping my prick until a jet
of sperm coated the glowing screen.  Then, without another
acknowledgment of the man's presence, I simply stuffed my cock
back into my Dockers and strolled out of the booth, another $90
richer.

After that, the encounters became routine, then absolutely
blas**e9**.  Like I said, I'm wearing the goggles now, and I can
easily spot the men who come into the X-Zone looking for me.  I
still have no idea how the word is spreading, though, but it is
.. fast.  In less than one week, I was having brushes with 4 men
a night, and these days I typically handle 5 to 8 curiosity
seekers on an eight-hour shift.  Sometimes, with the last one or
two I see, I actually experience problems achieving an erection
and accomplishing the climax of my little show.

Yet, somehow I manage to muddle through every encounter and never
leave my "fans" disappointed.  It's been over three weeks now,
and I've begun getting accustomed to the extra $400 - $600 a
night I'm taking in.  Multiplied by a five-day workweek, I now
stand to net almost an additional $2-$3,000 per pay period - tax
free, I might add.

Suddenly, my financial situation isn't looking so bleak after
all.  Unlike my life pre-Grandpa Munster, I now seem to have a
ready supply of disposable cash whenever I need it.  And if I
ever find myself momentarily short, there's always the promise of
more cash to make on my next shift.

Of course, the extra income still doesn't equal what Camille used
to bring home.  But without her extravagant expenses weighing
down our family budget, the additional dollars actually go a lot
further.  Now, for the first time since her departure, I actually
have "mad money" left over after paying our bills.  It's fun
being able to buy Danny and myself some "toys" for a change -
videogames, comic books, CDs, books - the kind of impractical,
thoroughly material goods that make life worth living.

All this newfound wealth does come with a price tag, though. 
When I pick Danny up at Janine's after a shift at the X-Zone, my
stomach gets queasy the moment I pull into the drive.  Part of me
wants to back the car out, leave my son in her care, and just
drive to some corner of the earth where I can start my life anew
- washing dishes, perhaps, at a truck-stop pancake house; or
dealing blackjack at an Indian reservation casino.  The nausea
gets even worse as I approach her doorway and then step inside
her home.

In the foyer, a painting of "Laughing Jesus" greets my every
visit.  I never even noticed it before - the wide, open-mouthed
smile stretched over His bearded face -- not until I started
doing my little shows in the pens.  Now, I can't escape His
jovial gaze.

At first, I thought the image was mocking me, but that's just
paranoid thinking.  In reality, Jesus is just simply laughing. 
He is enjoying his day without even giving a second thought to me
or the other denizens of the Stretch.  It is not the threat of
God's condemnation that I find so disheartening; rather it is the
evidence of His casual indifference.

If "Laughing Jesus" isn't bad enough, I then have to face the
oblivious, trusting gaze of my son as he huddles next to me and
asks me how work was.  He knows where the X-Zone is and that it's
a "dirty bookstore."  I never really thought to keep that from
him or anyone else in the family, even Janine.  In fact, when I
first got the job, I even shared some of the Stretch's "cleaner"
anecdotes with Danny.  These days, however, I can only brush
aside his questions and change the subject as quickly as
possible.

The thought that my son could ever know about my encounters in
the pens horrifies me beyond comprehension.  Some nights, as I'm
driving into work, I dwell on this very fear, and I find myself
swearing to the "Laughing Jesus" that I will never go back into
the pens again, that I will quit the X-Zone that very night and
find another job.  Yet, all my terror just vanishes when I enter
the Stretch.  In this corner of the world, I am not me, god is
not God, and sin is merely missed opportunity.



The man was maybe 10 years older than me, well over 6 feet tall,
burly, beer-bellied and bearded.  Judging by his bugged-out eyes,
I surmised he was drunk or stoned, maybe even both.  Spittle was
caked in a ring around his chapped bitten lips, so hard and
encrusted that it looked like tiny teeth.  It must have itched
because he kept brushing his whiskers with the back of his hand.
He reminded me of a lumberjack, or maybe a truck-driver, a
landscaper or a contractor-- flannel shirt, worn jeans, a stained
down vest.

It was 3:00AM on a Tuesday.  The store has been dead since
shortly after midnight, and I was getting an early jump on some
end-of-shift paperwork.  Tracy, a dull pregnant girl in her
twenties, was poised at the cash register, chewing a wad of
nicotine gum and eyeing our only customer.  I sat behind the
counter about ten feet away from her, immersed in the register
receipt tape from second shift and busily scratching ID codes
onto today's sales log.

By recording what products we sold every day, the X-Zone could
track sales trends and anticipate when certain hot items might
sell out.  In theory, this allowed us to reorder merchandise at
the last possible moment, thus timing the new delivery to arrive
just in time to replenish the dwindling stock.  Our goal was to
meet customer demand while simultaneously keeping our inventory
low.  Clare handled the ordering on the morning shift.  As third
shift supervisor, I needed to make sure she had accuratefigures.

"Preview!" the lumberjack's slurred, booming voice jarred my mind
from the sales report.  He placed a video on the counter - "Ho's
& Does #7, The French Connection."  The center of the video box
featured Moby Mojo, a leering proto-pimp with a big afro,
lime-colored leisure suit, and a fistful of money.  Surrounding
Mojo, still-shots from the video displayed various young white
women fawning over his gargantuan, jet black penis.  The Ho's &
Does series supposedly followed the real-life adventures and
misadventures of Moby Mojo, "super-pimp," who recorded his every
sexual encounter as he scoured the five continents "turning out
bitches of every flavor and persuasion."  This particular
installment promised recruitment scenes in Paris, Nice, Calais,
Lyon and Marseille.

Engrossed in my task, I returned to my report.  Before I could
resume counting, however, the lumberjack began tapping his large
pinky ring on the countertop.  For the first time I notice his
hands - bashed and bitten fingernails, calluses as large as
marbles.  Distracted now, I looked up to see him chewing on his
lower lip.  Spying me out of the corner of his eyes, he shot me a
sideways glance, a smile spreading across his bearded face. 
Then, he actually winked at me.  My goggles were definitely
working tonight.

"A pack of those, too," he added, pointing to the boxes of
flavored condoms enclosed in the glass display case below the
cash register.

Snapping her gum as she punched in the sale, Tracy withdrew the
carton of rubbers and announced the total: "$17.13."

"Can you break one of these?" the lumberjack asked, flashing a
wad of bills in plain sight.

"We don't take $100's for purchases under $60," Tracy explained,
flashing me an annoyed, questioning look.

"Just take the $50 then," the lumberjack offered good-naturedly.
"You can do that, right ..?"

"Mm hmm," Tracy snapped her gum again.  She took the $50 and
finished the transaction, handing the man his change back with
all the enthusiasm of an ATM machine.

The lumberjack scooped up his condoms and flashed me another wink
as he headed back to the pens.  I turned back to my reports. 
Something about the lumberjack didn't seem right to me.  He
didn't seem particularly dangerous, just different.  As I worked
on the sales report, I silently debated whether or not I should
follow him into the pens.

Tonight had been slower than usual.  I'd only seen two men since
11:00PM, and both of those were before midnight.  I could use the
extra $90, too.  I could ALWAYS use the extra $90.  Still,
something about the lumberjack did seem different, unsettling...

I continued my little psychodrama for another five minutes or so
until I looked up from the report.  "I don't think we're going to
get much more business in here before 6," I told Tracy while I
silently made up my mind to take the money and cum.  "I'm going
start cleaning up some of the booths, okay ..?"

"Whatever .."  She refocused her short attention span on an
infomercial for vitamin supplements blaring forth from the small,
battery-powered TV that Clare kept behind the counter.  With
employees like Tracy and Murray working, I never had to worry
about anyone catching me during my "extracurricular" activities.
They actually loved it when I left them alone on the sales floor
for a little while so they could goof off in peace.

"What booth is that guy in anyway?" I asked.  "So I don't disturb
him .."  I added quickly.

"I put him in 23," Tracy answered, not taking her eyes off the
tiny TV set.  "Is that all right."

"Yeah, that's fine."  The back corner of the labyrinth .. good.

I set down the sales report, grabbed the bucket with disinfectant
spray and rags, and headed back towards the fun.  "Page me if you
need me," I called back before leaving the sales floor.  I knew
Tracy wouldn't look up at the closed circuit TV screens once
while I was gone.  With only person back in the pens, there was
no reason, too.

Once I entered the maze of cubicles, I headed back to booth #23
immediately.  I wanted to get my $90 and get out of there as
quickly as possible.  Since I'd only cum twice in the last four
hours, I was fairly confident I could get myself off and back
onto the sales floor within ten minutes.  Hell, I might even be
able to clean a few of the booths while I was at it, too.

I set the bucket down in front of booth #21, directly across from
#23.  The lumberjack had the curtain half open, obviously looking
out for me.  He winked again when I peered into his cubicle. 
"Hey," he smiled, talking directly to my crotch.

"H..hi," I managed.  I didn't like to speak during these
encounters, and I'd found that most of the men didn't either.  My
little show went smoothest when it was conducted as a silent
transaction.  Talking only prolonged the commiseration, blurring
the invisible line bisecting the small booth as well as our
respective lives.

"Look at that nigger's dick," the lumberjack chuckled, pointing
to the screen.  While he spoke, he peeled a $100 bill off his
folded wad of cash and placed it on the bench next to him.  Like
many of the men I've been encountering lately, he somehow seemed
to already know the drill.  "Look at that little bitch sucking on
it," he spit as he spoke.

As I scooped up the $100 bill, he winked at me again.  I don't
know if he was expecting anything for the extra ten dollars, but
I'd be damned if I was going to give him any change.

"She can't handle a dick that big," he droned on, sounding just
like an armchair quarterback.  "Just look at the stupid bitch. 
It takes a MAN to suck a cock that big, don't you think ..?  I
mean REALLY suck it .. good .."

I tried to ignore his slobbering drawl while I unzipped my
Dockers.  I focused on the screen and achieving an erection.  I
wanted this encounter over as soon as possible.  I didn't like it
when they talked, and the jovial drunken lumberjack wasn't
getting any of my silent hints.  The quiet only seemed to spur
him onward, the words sloshing from his lips like spilled beer.

"Shit, you got a big old horse dick on you, don't you ..?" he
whistled.  "Fuck, you're better hung than that nigger, ain't you
..?"

When I didn't answer his question, he just pressed forward.

"Them nigger cocks just look bigger `cause they're black and
all," he rambled on.  "They look like fucking animal cocks, don't
they ..?.  Taste like `em, too.  I've sucked me a few niggers
that big," he pointed to the screen again, pride in his eyes. 
"Most of them ain't that hung, though, y'know ..?  All that shit
about them all having big-ass dicks is just propaganda, is all. 
Most of `em are just as big as us white guys.  Me, I got a small
li'l pecker for a guy my size.  You'd think I'd be hung like an
elephant, you know a guy my size, but I only got five inches
hard, and that's if you're measuring from the back of my ass
hole," he snickered.  "I wouldn't even show my pecker to a
stallion like you, I'd be too fucking embarrassed .."

My cock was out by now and hard, but it felt numb in my hands.  I
couldn't even sense the flesh as my hand stroked it.  "Focus,
Raymond, focus .." my mind whispered.  Trying to shut out the
lumberjack's voice, I bored my eyes into the television screen,
fixating on the image of the cute, young redhead as she tried
valiantly to inhale Moby Mojo's jet black jaw breaker.

"Come on, bitch," Mojo jeered over the sound of her gasps and
grunts.  "You gonna have to get more than that in there you want
to come work for me .."  As the pimp-turned-pornstar goaded the
poor Parisian lass, she worked even more of his massive meat
between her straining jaws.  "I always thought you French bitches
were supposed to be such great dick suckers," he continued
berating her, spit and pre-cum foaming down her chin like
soapsuds.

"Like I told you, man," the lumberjack observed.  "That little
girl can't handle that kind of cock, y'know ..?"

I clenched my teeth and pumped even more furiously.  I needed to
end this immediately.  I couldn't take another minute of the
lumberjack's incessant prattling.  My stomach heaved a wash of
bile over my taste buds, and my legs wobbled.  I rested my arm
against the top of the bench to steady myself, and closed my eyes
against the swelter of black spots pressing against my retina. 
Instinctively, furiously, I kept pulling at my prick, desperately
trying to reach completion before the darkness engulfed me.

Then I felt his lips - his bitten, chapped lips.  His prickly
beard nuzzled against my glans, his mouth yawning open like a
serpent's jaws.  I tried to push back, but the lumberjack wrapped
his strong arms around my waist.  My dick was now trapped between
his scaly lips, and he strained forward to take more.  I
attempted one more violent shove, but this time I felt his teeth
close down around the stalk of my cock, threatening to break the
soft, veiny tissue.

"Relax, man," he sputtered, his mouth full of my dick.

Holding back another wave of vomit, I just collapsed against his
thick body.  For the next minute or so, I allowed him to ravish
my cock with his foul mouth.  Through my tears, I tried to watch
the video and pretend it was the cute redhead's lips smacking
against my rigid cock flesh.  But then I would catch the bob of
the lumberjack's head in the bottom of my peripheral vision, and
another wave of nausea would wrack my body.

Finally, mercifully, my biological drives kicked in and I dumped
my load of pent-up sperm.  As the lumberjack, withdrew I saw him
licking his lips.  They were cherry red and sticky.

Blood?!

"MY GOD, HE BIT MY DICK!" I shrieked to myself.  Then I noticed
the slimy red condom sheathing my cock.  I'd been so overwhelmed
that I hadn't even noticed I was wearing a rubber.  When .. How
had he put it on me?  With his mouth?  That must have been it.  I
hadn't even felt him do it.

I stared at my sperm as it bulged in the condom's reservoir.  I
was so relieved that I didn't even stop the lumberjack as he
leaned forward again and licked the rest of the sticky, flavoring
from the condom.  "I hope you don't mind the rubber," he
commented, licking his lips.  I noticed him holding another $50,
which he now pressed into my trembling hands.  "I don't go
bareback in places like this.  You know how it is."  He looked
past me and towards the booth's entrance.  "How'd you like that,
honey?"

At first I thought he was talking to me.  Then I heard a rustling
sound behind me.  The plastic shower curtain ...  

In slow motion, I turned around to face Tracy.  She was grinning
and smoking a cigarette.  Her blouse was lifted up past her
bloated pregnant belly, and she'd popped out one of her flabby,
milky breasts.  She removed her left hand from where it massaged
her right nipple and extended it, palm open, towards me.

It didn't take a psychic to know what she wanted.  I pressed the
$50 into her hand now, and she slid it in her jeans pocket. 
Then, without another word, she strolled back to the salesfloor.

My cock had shriveled to one-third its erect size by now, and the
red condom drooped from the sagging flesh.  The lumberjack
gingerly removed the rubber, wrapping it daintily in a Kleenex
and sliding it in the pocket of his down vest.  "Catch ya' later,
man," he slapped me on the back as he slid out of the booth.  I
could hear him whistling and laughing as he wound through the
labyrinth of the pens, vanishing back into the world of the
Stretch.

I sank down on the bench, my brain fried and my muscles spent. 
The video droned on, surrounding me with the sights and sounds of
Moby Mojo's conquests.  I had no idea how I was going to go back
out on the sales floor and face Tracy.  What would she say to me?
 Would she tell Clare, Murray and the rest of them?  My God, I
could not only get fired because of this, but arrested, too.  My
life could actually be over!

At some point -- after hashing and rehashing countless scenarios
in which I was arrested, humiliated, convicted and sent to prison
- I finally decided to stand up, walk out on the sales floor and
face the firing squad.  I squinted at the bright lights as I
exited the pens.  Tracy had returned to her spot behind the
counter, her eyes glued to the tiny television set.  By now,
she'd switched channels from the vitamin infomercial to an old
rerun of "Vegas."

As I approached the counter, she looked up and handed me a slip
of paper from the cash register.  "I had a no-sale," she
explained.  "Some guy needed money for the payphone.  That's what
I came back there for .. to get your initials."  She grinned. 
"Pretty good scam you got going here .."

"Are you going to say something?" I asked point-blank.

"Hell, no," she laughed.  "Why the fuck should I?  You know,
before this I thought you were just a total asshole for like no
reason.  Now I see why."

"What do you want to keep your mouth shut?"

"You can shoot me an extra $50 or $75 a night," she went back to
the TV.  "It's cool.  I ain't greedy.  You let me turn tricks,
too, sometimes, when I want, and I'll deal you in."

"That sounds fair," I nodded, not trusting her one bit.  Like I
said, the one sin here on the Stretch was missed opportunity, and
Tracy didn't strike me as someone who sinned a lot.

"You got a big old dick there," she smirked.  "Too bad you're
gay.  We could have some fun, me and you."

Part of me wanted to tell her I wasn't gay, but the other part of
me kept my mouth silent.  It would be better this way.  Things
had already become far too complicated in the last hour, and the
thought of becoming any more entangled with Tracy was just as
frightening as the thought of what I had just done with the
lumberjack.

They were coming at me from all directions now ...


<1st attachment end>


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