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Message-ID: <37476asstr$1027365003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Alexis Siefert <ealexissiefert@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Betsy After the Fact (Flash, MF) {Alexis S.}
Date: Mon, 22 Jul 2002 15:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Betsy After the Fact (MF)
(FlashFic in 280 words)
By Alexis Siefert
ealexissiefert@yahoo.com

I'd never say that you *have* to read Betsy's Finest
Hour (found here and at asstr.com) to understand this
story, but reading it will tell you a little about
where this character comes from.

Same old stuff applies -- my story, please don't
repost it somewhere without talking to me first.  I
love hearing from readers--please let me know what you
think.


~~~~~~

Betsy After the Fact

I talk to myself, silently, while he fucks me. It gets
me through the night, the cold bricks of the walls,
and the freezing puddles at my ankles. It gets me
through the five minutes he needs. I pretend I'm being
interviewed. This is my story, I tell the blonde bimbo
interviewer. You'll be fascinated. It's one of a kind.

Everyone has a story to tell, don't they?

He's grunting in my ear. They usually do. I used to
think they were talking to me, but after a few weeks I
figured out they were talking to themselves, making
believe they hadn't just paid a two-bit whore for a
quick alley-fuck. Sometimes they're angry. Bitch.
Whore. Take it. They spit when they curse, and I used
to wonder who they were angry at.  Then I guess I
figured out that it didn't matter.

Sometimes they're trying to be happy. Come on, baby.
Give it to Daddy. They spit when they do that, too.
Like they've forgotten how to kiss. 

But most of the time they just grunt. I don't mind. It
goes faster when they don't seem to care.

My ass cheeks hurt. He's pounding pretty hard, and my
legs are tired. I'm tired. I gotta get out of this, I
tell myself every night. It's part of my interview.
How I Got Off the Street, Tonight on Nightline.   I
used to think it could happen.  Or I think I did.  

Okay, so I don't have a story to tell. So it's not
unique, after all. But I've got money for some dinner,
and he's done.  So it doesn't really matter now.

Until next time.

Come on, baby. Bitch. Whore.





__________________________________________________
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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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