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From: Alexis Siefert <ealexissiefert@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Betsy's Finest Hour  (MF) {Alexis S.} 
Date: Mon, 15 Jul 2002 02:10:03 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Betsys Finest Hour - ASSM.txt" begin>

Betsy's Finest Hour (MF)
By Alexis Siefert
(ealexissiefert@yahoo.com)

* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's
Club (www.ruthiesclub.com), where it appeared illustrated by Garv
under an exclusivity period for six months.

This is a work of adult fiction and should be read only by
adults. It is also my work. Although I receive no compensation
other than your comments, it is still my work. Please respect
this and do not repost it somewhere else without talking to me
first about it. If you are not allowed to read works with sexual
content, either due to your age or by virtue of the laws in the
geographical location in which you reside, please do not
continue.


Alexis (ealexissiefert@yahoo.com)

~~~~

Betsy's Finest Hour (MF)


We all have to die someday. I knew that, but this isn't what I
had expected. I wasn't supposed to end up in the streets, naked
and unidentifiable. They were behind me. They hadn't made their
"official" move yet, but I knew it was coming. I could almost
feel their hands on my skin and their bodies between my legs. I
involuntarily shuddered with revulsion and fought to keep panicky
tears from starting. I knew that if I started crying now I'd
never stop. Panic is like that. Fear is like that.

The worst part of it all was the sudden realization that I was
about to become a cliché. I had this instant Polaroid-mental
image of how the scene would play out, and it was straight out of
a late-night rerun of Law and Order. "Who is she?" "Who knows?
Just some whore, I guess."

I hadn't been on the streets long, just plenty long enough to
hear talk about this girl who was beaten, that girl who was
knifed, such-and-such a girl who OD'd. After a few minutes of
silence, the conversation would just drift away to other topics.
It didn't seem to matter much.

The idea that I, Betsy Powell, would be reduced to an anonymous
statistic finally shook me out of the fear that had frozen me in
place, and I turned and headed back quickly to the all-night
diner I had just left. I waitressed there part-time, working for
tips and picking up whatever shifts Joe offered. I knew he'd let
me sit at the counter and wait out my stalkers.

I knew all three of them from their rowdy visits to the
diner-just a gaggle of street-toughs without enough brains
between them to open a soda can. Together they fed on each
other's quests for delinquency, rising to new highs of violent
behavior when they were together and able to convince themselves
of their "gang" status. I had fucked up earlier in the day. One
of them came into the diner and insinuated how lucky I was that
he was willing to let me spread my legs for him. I wasn't amused
and said something snide that, at the time, I thought was
perfectly delightful and biting and humorous.

I had forgotten my audience. My wonderful sarcastic wit was lost
on them. And apparently they were there to remind me they were
not amused. In short, I was fucked.

The diner door seemed miles away as I kept one eye on the
welcoming warmth of its well-lit interior and the other eye on
the shadows moving slowly but steadily along in my peripheral
vision. It dawned on me how quiet it was. Normally I would expect
to hear street sounds-that's what streets did at night, they
housed sounds. Cars and horns and chatter and the distant sounds
of more cars and horns. Right now all I could hear was the click
of my heels on the pavement. The rest had faded into a white
noise, something in the background.

I was mentally reviewing the lessons I learned in high school
health class about not becoming a victim when walking alone. Walk
with purpose, but not with fear. Don't run. Act like you know
where you're going. Don't run. Don't show fear. I was gauging the
time it would take me to get to the glass doors of the diner, and
I had just about decided that my health teacher could get bent. I
was making a run for it.

And here's another fucking cliché, right? No sooner did I make
that half-hitch step that leads into a run, but my heel caught on
something (there's always something, even if there's nothing.
That's what the scriptwriters rely on, right folks?). My hands
hit the pavement at the same time as hands grabbed me by the
collar of my tee shirt and the top of my hair.

I heard the fabric of my shirt rip from the collar to the hem
down the back (unbelievably thinking at the time, "of course, the
damn thing couldn't rip on a seam, could it?"). Broken glass tore
through the knees of my jeans and imbedded itself into my legs
and shins as I fell heavily on all fours.

The blood pounding through my ears muted their voices, but their
intent was clear enough. Hands pawed at my jeans, fumbling to
turn me over as I tried to scramble away. I knew I'd survive the
group fuck (what's one more, right?), but I was thoroughly pissed
about my clothes. I kicked up and back with one foot until I felt
my heel hit the doughy stomach of whichever asshole had grabbed
me first.

My arms were kicked out from under me, and my body hit the ground
hard. Suddenly, I knew what it felt like to suffocate. I heard my
breath whoosh from my lungs as a foot planted itself between my
shoulder blades and pushed. I could feel the heel of his boot dig
into my skin, and a small rivulet of what I assumed was blood
began to flow along my spine.

I grit my teeth and sagged under the weight of the man standing
above me. Self-preservation took over, I guess, and I decided
they'd be done with me faster if I stopped fighting. No use
pissing them off any further. I relaxed my arms and lay flat
against the concrete, concentrating on the rough surface against
my cheek instead of on thoughts of what the rest of the evening
held.

I closed my eyes hard. I'd be damned if, on top of everything
else, they saw me cry. I'd be dead within a week if word got out
that I cried. It doesn't take much to get marked as the weakest
in the herd.

The asshole behind me jerked his hand backwards and it felt like
my hair was about to rip from my skull. His face came right next
to mine and his breath was rancid and hot and stung my eyes
through my clenched lids. "No one disses me in front of my
homies, bitch," he snarled. His voice was barely audible, his
words slurred. They had obviously fortified their group-bravado
with a bottle or twelve of Molson's while they waited for me to
come off-shift.

Damn. Double damn. I was really and truly screwed.

Suddenly I heard, "I've just called the police."

The voice cut through the deafening silence that had surrounded
our little tableau. I knew that whoever it was hadn't really
yelled, but to me it sounded like he was shouting from the
mountaintop.

"Whathefuck?" I wasn't expecting it, so my chin slammed painfully
down on the pavement when the asshole let go of my hair. I felt
my lip split against my teeth and I tasted blood but I decided
that, for the moment, I was best off staying low and silent.
Maybe they'd be too distracted by this new crazy guy to remember
that I was beneath this asshole's boot.

One of the other assholes started posturing. "You wanna piece of
'er, motherfucker? You'll have to wait until the three of us are
done wit'er. You can have whatever part's left."

The unknown saint (he deserved saint-status in my book, if for no
other reason than he just bought me some time to teach my lungs
to breath again) spoke again, slowly, as though he were standing
in front of a group of preschoolers. Amazing judge of character
he was. "You...don't... seem...to...be...understanding...me.
Listen very closely."

I opened one eye for a surreptitious peek, and damn if it wasn't
another scriptwriter's wet dream. All I could see was the outline
of a figure standing in front of the street lamp. He was
surrounded by an aura from the light's halogen glow. I'm sure it
was a trick of the light and the shadows and the fact that I was
looking at him from two inches off the ground, but I swear he was
eight feet tall. Thin, but still bigger than life. His arm was
raised, and I could make out the outline of a small cellular
phone.

"I've just called 911," he announced. "At this time of night, and
this close to a donut shop, I'd guess they'll be here in, oh," he
paused for a semi-dramatic glance at his wrist, "sixty-two
seconds or so."

On cue we heard the approaching sirens. He tossed something on
the ground at the feet of the asshole with his foot on my back.
"There's my wallet. It's got about a hundred fifty bucks cash in
it. Now, you have a decision to make. You can take my money and
leave, or you can kick my ass and hope the cops don't get here
before you're finished"

I swear to God, time stopped. I never understood what that meant
before, and I always figured that people were being ridiculously
over-dramatic when they said it, but at that moment I understood
completely.

And suddenly it was over. The boot was off my back, and I could
hear their footsteps retreating faster than the sirens were
approaching. I finally caught my breath and rolled over to sit on
the sidewalk.

He stepped out from in front of the light, and I could see him
more clearly now. I held up my arm, and he reached down to give
me a hand up. "Unless you want to have to deal with the police, I
suggest we move ourselves along. I'm Howard."

I grasped his forearm and felt the muscle bunch under his skin.
He wasn't eight feet tall after all, but he had to be at least
six, if not more. A solid eight or more inches taller than me.
And I was right-he was thin, but not gaunt. I suddenly remembered
watching the Tour de France on television before I left home a
hundred years ago. He reminded me of the bicyclists, or maybe a
serious runner. All muscle and sinew. Then again, maybe my eyes
were playing tricks. He had just saved my ass-literally.

The remains of my tee shirt slipped forward as I stood up. I
caught it with my free hand and awkwardly held it over my bare
breasts. I should have been wearing a bra, but I've noticed the
immediate payoff in tips at the diner when I let the girls loose
during a shift. Being "busty" has occasional advantages, even if
it means carrying a few extra pounds in other places as well.
However, a couple more hungry months out here and that wouldn't
be an issue. I realized he was staring. Saint and savior or not,
I felt a sudden urge to regain a smidgen of dignity. "Um, do you
mind? I'm a little indecent here."

He had the grace to blush and refocus his eyes to the wall behind
me. He shrugged off his jacket and handed it to me, specifically
not looking at me as he did.

"Thanks." I turned my back and shucked off the remains of my
shirt. Damn, it was a nice tee shirt too. I zipped his jacket up
between my breasts and turned back to him. "Howard, you said?
Anyone ever call you Howie?" As conversation starters go, it was
pretty lame, but I was trying to regain my bearings, and I wasn't
sure where this was going. I figured I was going to owe him some
pretty big pay back, but I was waiting for him to make the first
suggestion.

He laughed, but it was a creepy, depressed sound. "Not in a
while."

Ah-ha. Girlfriend or wife left him or done him wrong somehow. Men
are so transparent sometimes. I felt a sudden, overwhelming need
to take some control back over the situation.

"Well, Howie, can I buy you a cup of coffee for your troubles?"

He looked down at me. "Shouldn't you go home? You'll want to have
someone look at your lip, I think."

I shrugged, and was immediately reminded by a screaming back
muscle that I had just spent some serious time on the ground with
a foot between my shoulder blades. I grit my teeth for a minute,
waiting out a sudden wave of nausea. My knees started to buckle
and my vision blurred and I felt myself begin to shake. I grabbed
his arm to steady myself.

He wrapped his arm under my shoulders, and we started walking.
Well, he started walking. I more or less stumbled along under his
arm. "You're right," I heard him say through the fog. "You need
some coffee."

~~~~~~~~~~

We went back to the diner where I work and sat at a booth against
the back wall. Neither of us seemed to feel the need to sit by
the window. I, for one, had seen enough of the street lately, and
I didn't need to watch the world stand still outside the glass.
He had gently, but firmly, steered me away from the barstools
near the order window and helped me ease onto the padded seat.
The vinyl creaked as I sat, and I leaned heavily back. The short
walk to the shop had cleared my head, and the worst of the shakes
seemed to have passed.

I could hear the radio from behind the counter. When it was slow
in the diner, Joe kept it tuned to a big band station, although
he'd make concessions if enough customers wanted to hear
something else. Ever the businessman, he was. People didn't
complain much though. Joe's was a place to relax, and the strains
of Jimmy Dorsey seemed to help.

I absently traced lines in the crackled tabletop, and for the
millionth time I wondered briefly what school diner designers
went to. It was all such an indefinite pastel. As if someone had
taken all paint left over from doing baby nurseries and mixed it
to come up with this lime-cream-rose-baby blue shade. I wasn't
quite sure how to start the conversation. What does one say? The
arrival of steaming roasted bean juice broke the silence. Oh, the
wonders of coffee.

Joe gave me a paternalistic look as he filled our cups. One of
the few things Joe could be counted on was to always have fresh
coffee on hand. This time of night I'm sure he was losing money
on each cup. Business always seemed to lull around midnight and
stayed dead until the bars closed at two. I asked him once why he
bothered to stay open that late. He insisted there was always
someone who needed good coffee, and, if they were out that late,
they probably needed it more than most. Since that time, I've
parked myself on his barstool more than once, nursing a
bottomless cup. Joe was polite enough never to ask, although I'm
sure he realized on those nights that I was there because
whatever plans I had for sleeping arrangements had fallen
through. It's not that I'm too hoity to plant myself and my
sleeping bag behind a bush in the park, but sometimes sleep just
doesn't seem worth the hassle.

I wrapped my fingers gratefully around my mug, and looked up at
him.

"Aw, shit, Betsy." He handed me a towel and a glass of ice. He
gave Howard a glance, unable to completely hide his contempt. I
knew he thought that Howie was a John I had brought in. "If you
needed the money, you could have asked."

I felt my cheeks burn as I put together a makeshift ice pack and
dabbed at my lip. "It wasn't like that Joe." Not this time, I
silently added. Unfortunately, Joe was all-too-aware of my
occasional desperate attempt at cash acquisition. Every once in a
while I'd had to resort to a quick $20 blowjob to keep myself in
such luxuries as food and clothes. Quarter-a-cup coffee tips only
bought a girl so much finery. Up to now I hadn't had to go any
further into the street life, but times were getting desperate,
and I didn't like the picture of the future I was seeing for
myself.

Introductions were apparently in order.

"Joe, this is Howard. Howard, Joe. Joe owns this place. Joe,
Howard saved my bacon tonight, but in the process he sacrificed
his wallet to the gods of street thuggery. I'm supposed to be
buying him coffee. But, um..." I suddenly realized that I no
longer had my purse. I must have lost it when the jackass knocked
me down.

Joe nodded. "No sweat, Betsy. You can owe me. Nice to meetcha,
Howard." A quick nod, and Joe left us to resume our awkward
silences.

"I...," I started.

"Um...," he began.

Good. That's always good for a laugh and an icebreaker. I started
over. "Look, Howard. I don't know what possessed you to step in
like that, but it was brilliant-you were brilliant. I was dead
meat out there. I have no idea how I'll ever pay you back."

He had the decency to look offended, or shocked, or both.
"There's no need to pay me back, Betsy."

"No. I pay my debts. We'll have to work something out." I was
fully aware, and embarrassed, at the implication I was making.
Well, old habits and all that.

He nodded. "Fine. Until then, talk to me. Do you live around
here?"

I contemplated my answer. Honesty didn't really seem to be the
best policy here. "Yeah. Not far. Just around the corner." It was
almost true. I kept a locker at the bus terminal around the
corner. One dollar a week, as long as I only opened it once every
seven days.

Something dark passed behind his eyes. "Bullshit, Betsy. There's
nothing but abandoned buildings and businesses and the bus depot
around this block. If you're going to start out by lying to me,
let's just say 'nice to meetcha' and we'll go our separate ways."
He started to stand. "Keep the jacket. I'll get another one."

Fuck. Some woman really screwed him over, and I couldn't stand
the contempt in his voice. "Wait. Howard. Please. Sit down. Let's
start over."

He stopped and sat back into the booth. "Fine. How old are you,
Betsy."

I took a deep breath. "Twenty-two." His eyebrows shot up. "Okay,
okay. Eighteen." I was feeling on the spot and decided to turn it
around a bit.

"Not to question my good fortune, Howard, but what the hell were
you doing wandering out here this late at night?" I realized I
was dreading the answer. There were only a few reasons that a guy
walked the streets in this area late at night, and very few of
them were conducive to us forming a friendship beyond a
"pay-for-your-time" one.

"Roaming. Nothing in particular."

Hm. Non-committal and vague. Time for a more direct tack. "Well,
Howard. I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you've got that
'deer in the headlights' look. Who was she and what the hell did
she do to you?"

There was a hard silence between us. Somewhere in the diner Jimmy
Dorsey finished his song and Frankie Carle took over with a
semi-slow waltzish something.

Howard's eyes clouded over again. He seemed to think for a
minute, then abruptly stood. Shit. I went too far.

He held out his hand. "Can you dance?"

The darkness lifted, and I smiled. "Why Howie, I thought you'd
never ask."

~~~~~~

There wasn't a lot of room on the floor between the tables and
stools, but we made do. Besides, for a slow dance you don't need
a lot of room. He held me close, but not too close. We moved in
silence for a few minutes, his hand on my back seamlessly
shifting me from beat to beat and from space to space. The
difference in our heights could have made dancing awkward. He
seemed to compensate just fine.

"Cindy."

At first I thought that maybe I was hearing things. His voice was
quiet, almost as though he wasn't really talking to me.

"Excuse me?" I resisted the urge to crack wise about calling me
by another woman's name.

"Her name was Cindy."

Ah-ha. Now we were getting somewhere. "And?" I prompted.

He paused for a few beats and let the music guide us around the
middle tables. On the next major downbeat he continued. "And not
much. Her name was Cindy. We lived together. We loved each
other."

This seemed to stop him, and for the first time he stepped out of
time. He recovered and twirled me just in time to avoid smacking
into the coat tree by the door.

"To be honest, I loved her. I'm not sure what she ever felt for
me. I would have married her. I tried to marry her. She just
never agreed to it." His voice had taken an ugly, bitter edge.
Man, this chick really cut into him. I'd lay money on her going
off with his best friend, or maybe his best friend's wife.

So, I did what I do best, I resorted to a feeble attempt at wit.
"Apparently you never danced her around a two-bit coffee joint
then. No girl could resist this."

"No, I guess I didn't." He pulled back a bit and held me at arm's
length. "You know, you look a bit like her." That seemed to close
the subject for him. He moved on. "Your turn, little girl. Why
aren't you somewhere rushing a sorority and driving frat boys mad
with lust? And where does an eighteen-year-old girl on her own
learn to dance?"

I did a quick assessment of my possible responses. I decided I
could venture a vague semblance of the truth. "Once I got out of
high school, college just didn't seem to be an option. It was
time for me to clear out of the house and head out on my own, I
guess. I knew I couldn't make it as a country
girl-turned-country-housewife."

He nodded. "How long have you been on your own, Betsy?"

"Long enough, Howard, to learn to take care of myself." I hated
what that implied, but he probably already thought the worst of
me.

He thought for a moment, then seemed to accept that answer. "And
the dancing?"

"My step-father taught me."

"That must have been nice. Usually you hear about how horrible
things are between step-parents and children."

I shrugged and decided that some things were best left unsaid. It
was none of his business that the step-monster had decided that
another form of 'dancing' was more appropriate. I could feel my
back and shoulders stiffen at the thought, and, damn it, I was
starting to cry. Fuck.

He must have sensed it, because he stopped dancing and once again
pulled back to look at me. I couldn't meet his eyes.

"I see." And I suspected he understood. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't
have brought it up." He pulled me close, and I found myself with
my cheek buried in his shirt. He wrapped his arms around my
shoulders and I suddenly couldn't stop crying.

We stayed like that for ages, swaying to the music from the
radio, not dancing, not talking, just absorbing each other.

I was cried out in a matter of minutes, a quick torrent that
passed as fast as it had come on. The song changed and we picked
up the pace to match it.

I was almost painfully aware of his hand on my back. His fingers
traced the outline of my shoulder blades as we moved. His other
hand entwined my fingers and pulled me into his rhythm. I was
suddenly aware of the lack of space between our bodies. The
borrowed jacket was heavy against my bare skin and the rough
lining scraped over my breasts as we danced. The friction was
suddenly warming me from inside out. I felt a tingle beginning
somewhere deep in my stomach.

Apparently I wasn't the only one. Because of the difference in
our heights, his crotch was at the bottom of my ribcage and I
could feel a distinctive hardening under his jeans. I couldn't
help myself. I held tighter against him and I could feel him
pulse beneath the fabric.

His arms clenched around me, grinding me against his body. My
nipples, hard from the friction of his jacket, were crushed under
the pressure. The air around us was suddenly thick with desire
and tension and unspoken promise, and I found myself having
difficulty breathing.

Images flashed through my mind, and I knew what I wanted to do. I
wanted, no needed to spend the night with him somewhere
significantly less public. And if I didn't get him out of here
quickly I was going to completely alienate my only source of
legitimate income by falling to my knees and dragging Howard's
jeans down to his ankles. I figured the vinyl-covered,
duct-tape-patched coffee booth wasn't the best place to straddle
his thighs, regardless of how much I wanted to feel him inside
me.

I made a quick decision. "Howard? Do you live around here?"

His voice was husky. "Not far. Betsy, do you know what you're
offering?"

"I'm a big girl, Howard, I know. Do you know what you're
accepting?"

"I'm old enough to be your fa... er... uncle, Betsy. Does that
bother you?"

I shrugged. "Should it? Do you think I was out here doing a story
for my high school newspaper? I'm not a child, Howie. What's a
few years between friends?" Flippant again. Shit. I couldn't
stop.

It didn't seem to faze Howard. He didn't answer, except to lead
me to the door. I waved something non-committal to Joe about
owing him for the coffee as we left.

Neither of us spoke as the night air hit our faces. It was a warm
night but the air felt cool against my flesh. I knew the warmth
was artificial, that lust and desire were warming my skin, but I
unzipped the jacket a bit more to feel the air on my chest.
Howard took a quick glance down. I knew he could see my tits
under the open zipper, and I arched, teasing him silently. He
said nothing, but quickened his step.

"I'm about ten blocks this way." He was almost growling by this
time, and I had to suppress the urge to ask him to run there with
me.

A block down I knew I couldn't wait any longer. One quick one,
then we could take the rest of the night at his place to get to
know each other. I pulled him into an alley and fell to my knees
in front of him.

His fingers gripped my hair as I roughly pulled open the button
of his jeans and dragged the zipper down. My fingers fumbled
under his shorts to pull his cock into the open.

"No, Betsy. Not here..." but his protests died quickly as I
hungrily lowered my lips to his cock. I felt my split bottom lip
crack again, but it didn't seem to matter. My fingers wrapped
around his shaft, and I held it tightly as I surrounded it with
my mouth. My tongue danced over its tip and teased under the
ridge.

I felt his grip tighten against my scalp, and he let out a loud
moan. I smiled to myself and quickened my pace. He was close. His
balls tightened under my fingers and blood pulsed through his
cock. My lips danced over his shaft, drawing him deep into my
throat. I hummed with pleasure, feeling my throat vibrate around
the soft, warm tip.

He held my head and thrust harder into my mouth, growling as he
came. I swallowed quickly, letting him fill my throat, each
thrust sending the warmth of his cum into my belly.

Without warning, his fingers dug painfully into my scalp, and I
felt something warm splatter on my shoulder. I tried to pull back
in protest, but his hands were too strong and I couldn't get
loose from his grip. I could feel him start to sag against the
wall and his knees buckled under my chest. He sank to the ground,
pulling me partially into his lap as he sat.

I looked at him in utter confusion. His eyes were wide and
surprised. Instead of the happy, spent expression I expected to
see on his face, he looked as though I had bitten off his cock. A
fading voice and the sounds of receding footsteps cleared up my
confusion.

"Motherfucker," the voice yelled. "Maybe that will teach you to
interfere when you see someone giving a bitch what shedeserves."

I brought my hand to touch the dark wetness on my skin. When the
lights from a passing car illuminated the alleyway I could see
the blood on my hand, and on his shirt. Frantically, I pulled up
the hem of his shirt to find a wide gash in his side. There was
an abandoned knife on the ground next to us, covered with the
sticky mess.

I tore his jacket from my shoulders and bunched it up against the
wound. He looked at me with glazed eyes.

"Don't, Howard. Hold on." I was babbling, but I didn't know what
else to do. I shouted for help, but at this time of night, in
this part of town, there was little chance of anyone hearing us.

I shifted my weight and carefully brought him into my lap, not
letting up the pressure on the jacket. I could feel his life
seeping out between my fingers.

His lips were moving. I bent close to him to hear. "Thank you."

"No, Howard. Don't. Hold on. Please hold on."

He shook his head weakly. "Tell...." He gasped, and I felt a
fresh spurt of blood gush from his side. "Tell Cindy I love her."
His eyes closed and I felt him go limp. The blood stopped
spurting and there was a frighteningly final rattle of breath.

I sat there in the alley, trash piled up in the corners, with
silent breezes sending wisps of smoke from the ventilation
systems swirling around us. I sat there, naked from the waist up,
and held him as he died. I held him, and his last words were for
someone else.

It was just such a fucking cliché. 


~~~~~~

edited by Neil Anthony and Ruthie


I'd love to hear from you - please, please, please let me know what you
think.  Like most writers, I take what I do here very seriously, and I'd
appreciate any feedback, suggestions, or comments that readers are kind
enough to send.  

Alexis
Ealexissiefert@yahoo.com


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