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Message-ID: <48352asstr$1088759402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: RuthiesStories@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} (Betsy) Betsy After the Fact {Alexis S}
Lines: 55
Date: Fri,  2 Jul 2004 05:10:02 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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<1st attachment, "Betsy After the Fact.txt" begin>

Betsy After The Fact By Alexis Siefert

   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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