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From: "Bradley Stoke" <bradley_stoke@hushmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} A Good Match (Bradley Stoke)
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Date: Mon, 05 Mar 2007 19:10:05 -0500
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{ASSM} A Good Match (Bradley Stoke)

Title: A Good Match
Author: Bradley Stoke
Keywords: FM
Short Summary: It was a good match.


[This story has been previously published on Ruthie's Club
(www.ruthiesclub.com) where it was edited by Ruthie and
illustrated by Tzratzk.]



Story: A Good Match (3,739 words)

It was a good match. Darren's home team had defeated the
Manchester City side quite convincingly. And he and his
mates had done similar damage to their fans. Now he was
alone in the streets, looking for a way to complete a perfect
day. What better than with Shell. But first he had to dispose
of her boyfriend.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www



	A Good Match
	============

Wicked! That's what it was. Well wicked!

Darren dabbed a trickle of blood off his lip. Nothing to
worry about. Least it hadn't got onto his shirt. Fucking
seventy quid he paid for that. And he didn't relish explaining
to his mum how come he'd got some distinctly biological
stains on it. Not like his Fred Perry that time. Fucking
ninety quid it cost and it never looked so good again.

But it was wicked. Brutal!  He and his mates had shown
those Man C cunts. If they'd not had the back-up that
appeared from fucking nowhere, the cunts would be
fucking dead now. And when he and his mates scarpered,
he noticed one of the Man C cunts waving a fucking chain.
Just like in A Clockwork Orange. And that was one fucking
movie.

Darren laughed to himself as he remembered the geezer
he'd chinned and the plexus punch he'd administered to the
fat bloke in the poncey Armani. When he fell to Darren's
feet, perfectly placed for a few kicks in the groin, well, that
was a fucking blast that was. He'd have fucking left him
with busted goolies given the chance.

He held the tissue up to his eyes. The blood stains were
fainter now. Mother Nature could always be relied on to
stop the flow, just as it was always there to start the taps
running after a bit of radical administration.

But where were his mates now?

Fucking gone they were! Every last fucking cunt. It was
just him in the North London streets, all on his lonesome,
and not ready for another ruck with a bunch of poncey
Mancies. He'd rather be lashing out the medicine than
taking it.

So, where to now?

Certainly not back to the stadium. There was too much
chance he would be picked up by some stragglers from the
Man C crew. And although it had been a good match, a
two-nil victory to the home side, there wasn't much to do at
an empty football ground.

Darren heard the heavy percussive beats from a bar across
the road, accompanied by flashing lights, the excited chatter
of the evening crowd and the clink of lager bottles. Yeah!
That's what he could do with now. A Grolsch would set
him up right.

He checked that the blood on his chin was dry, sensibly
choosing to leave the scab intact, and strode over the road.
He admired his reflection on the plate glass door as he
pushed it open. He looked like a million dollars. Or more
precisely the 350 quid the suit cost him. He rudely pushed
his way to the front of the bar, through the other people
waiting rather more patiently than him for a drink.

"Oi!" he shouted to the barmaid, whose back was turned to
him. "Have a heart! I've been waiting bleeding ages! And I
only want a Grolsch."

She turned round. Pretty little bint she was.

"Oh! I'm sorry. Do you want it cold?"

Works every time, Darren snickered, accepting the ice-cold
bottle of lager with the top levered off.

"Keep the change!" he announced with a winning smile,
handing her the exact money.

And now what?

Darren leaned his back against a mirrored pillar, not
wishing to show himself up by sitting down although there
were a couple of spare seats. He couldn't see the telly, not
that he'd be able to hear anything over the booming garage,
so Darren was forced to look ahead of him and think.

Not something he liked to do very often.

Only a week or so till his wedding to Trace. Darren wasn't
sure he was looking forward to that so much as to the Stag
Night on the Friday before. That'd be fucking brilliant. The
lads and he would go off to some lap dancing joint and
there'd be plenty of beer and curry. But if the cunts dared to
do what they did to Kev on his stag night, trussed up like
some fucking turkey with not even a pair of boxers to hide
his shrivelled manhood, well, there'd be some dead bodies
in the manor not long afterwards.

Everyone said Trace and he were well suited. They'd been
going out, off and on, for two years now, though Darren
had only proposed marriage to her when he heard she'd also
been going with Phil. And Phil was one of the few geezers
on the manor you couldn't mess with. By staking a definite
claim on Trace, flashing that diamond ring he'd got for 300
quid on the high street, Darren had shown he could swing
with the big dicks. I mean, you mightn't be able to tackle
Phil head on, but you could stake your territory. And if
your one and only was pedigree tail in the district, then
people just had to give due respect.

Of course, his mum and dad were delighted too, although
Darren couldn't help wondering that might be because he'd
have to move out of the family home and his parents would
only need to worry about his sister, Sue, and that black
sprog of hers she'd earned after one night of stupidity with
the yardie crew.

Darren scanned the bar for tottie and smiled as he assessed
the talent. One in particular took his fancy: a tidy little
number with plenty of trim midriff on show and a pretty
face. Her hair was just long enough to brush her shoulders.
She had very nearly finished the small glass she held
delicately in her hand at the end of a long and sensuous
bare arm. Opposite her was her bloke, dressed in a nylon
bomber with a black short-cropped barnet much like
Darren's own. When she smiled her face was a startling and
delicious array of white ivory. Her eyes sparkled under a
high forehead.

And then the bloke left her to make his way towards the
loo, his neat black jeans and white trainers flashing with
each stride.

Now was the moment.

Darren strolled over to the girl, a broad grin on his face.

"You look like you need a refill. What you having, love?"

She looked startled. Her smile vanished and her eyes
narrowed. No longer sparkling. More anxious and clouded.

"You what?"

"You heard, love," Darren said, his grin, if anything,
broader than before. "What's your poison?"

The girl was flustered. "I don't know what you think you're
about. I'm with Trev. We were just about to go on
somewhere else."

"Don't be soft. I'm only being friendly, love. What's your
name anyway? I'm Darren."

"Shell. Michelle, really. But don't think I'm gonna?"

"I'm pleased to meet you, Shell," said Darren. "You know
when you see a bird like you, well, you just can't not do
nothing."

"What do you mean?" wondered Shell, looking flustered
and nervous.

"I don't know if anyone's ever told you, but you're a girl in
a million."

"Really?"

"Course you are. A red blooded geezer just can't stand over
there when you're in the room and not want to pass a
compliment."

"What you on?" Shell giggled, softening to Darren's
practised repartee.

"What the fuck are you doing, mate?" asked the rather
more aggressive voice of Trevor who'd returned from the
loo. "You hitting on my bird?"

Darren turned around, still smiling, and faced down his rival
in love.

"And if I am?" he asked quietly.

Trevor looked as flustered as Shell.

"You just fucking take your fucking hands off her."

"I ain't touched her, mate."

"Don't be fucking stupid. Just fucking move off. Fuck off!"

"You threatening me?"

Trevor looked Darren up and down. The two men were
pretty equally matched. Neither of them especially big, but
both fairly fit.

"Just fuck off, cunt!" Trevor said, choosing to raise his
voice to a level sufficiently loud for the rest of the bar to
turn their heads around to see what was going on.

"So, what you gonna do?"

"I'll fucking kill you."

"What did you say?" asked Darren quietly and apparently
reasonable.

"Just fuck off or I'll fucking kill you!"

That was good enough for Darren, though less would have
been sufficient really.

He clipped his fist across Trevor's mouth, bursting the lip
with the single punch. And then, as Trevor fell back from
the blow and just about to launch out with a punch of his
own, Darren followed through with a cuff to the ear and
two or three upward thrusts with his fist into Trevor's
chest. As his victim fell forward, Darren added a few more
punches in the face to the punishment. When Trevor fell
backwards into some people who'd foolishly not moved out
of the way, Darren slid his leg under Trevor's legs to bring
him heavily down onto the floor.

"You cunt!" Trevor whimpered.

"You bastard!" echoed one of the men whom Trevor had
fallen onto.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Shell gasped.

"Come on, love!" replied Darren, who took advantage of
the confusion to grab Shell by the arm and drag her out of
the bar, while behind them the other customers were
responding variously and with no coordination to the swift
and conclusive outrage that most of them hadn't really seen.

"It was him who fucking started it!" yelled Darren, as he
slipped through the door, gripping Shell tightly by her arm.
"You saw it. He was fucking mental, he was! He should be
fucking certified, the cunt!"

It wasn't until Darren had strode several yards down the
street, dragging a bemused Shell with him, that his abductee
began struggling to get loose. No doubt she was as
confused as anyone by Darren's speedy attack to easily
gather her wits.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing? That was my
bloke you fucking chinned. Fucking let me go!"

"Don't be fucking stupid! You don't want to get involved
with plod. Anyway, I was just defending myself. The cunt
said he was gonna kill me. It was either him or me!"

"He wasn't gonna do nothing."

"Don't talk wet. How was I gonna fucking know that?
Look, love, I'm sorry for what I done to your bloke. What
say we stop for a drink? You know, I don't want you to
think I'm some sorta wide cunt, looking for a fight and all.
There's a pub over there. We'll stop there. And don't get
too pissed off. I'll buy you a drink and everything. It's the
least I can do."

Darren lessened his grip on Shell's arm, sensing she was
relaxing after his apology.

"Well, just one. If it was, like, a genuine mistake. Then I've
gotta get back. Trev'll be wondering where I am."

Perhaps, wondered Darren. But when the paramedics
arrived, he'd have a lot of other things to worry about.
Darren glanced at the trace of blood on his fist. Trevor
probably wouldn't start worrying about where his bird was
for quite a while yet.

Darren guided Shell into a quiet little pub down a side
street he knew of where most of the clientele were really
too old to get involved in a ruck. He kept his grip on her
arm while he ordered a Becks for himself (there was no
Grolsch here) and an alcopops for Shell. Then they sat
down in a corner where Shell couldn't easily scarper whilst
keeping up a line of chat that was mostly just to keep her
mind off other things.

He told her he worked for a software house and how he
was some kind of sales rep. He told her he'd just been to a
football match and had had to run off when some hooligans
picked on him and his mates. He told her that she was a
tidy girl and that he'd not noticed her bloke, Trev. He told
her he'd been done not too long ago when a friend of his
had got into a fight and he'd been arrested as an accessory
to the crime. He told her that he would rather risk anything
than lose his job if got arrested again.

"Some of my mates are a bit too ready with the old fists,"
Darren asserted. "But they're mates, you know. You've
gotta stick by them."

He gazed into Shell's eyes, clearly melting under Darren's
patter, her wrist no longer needing to be held and her
mouth puffing away at the ciggie she'd pulled out of her
handbag. He wasn't exactly going to tell her that he'd
actually stitched up his mates, seeing the fuzz arrive and
shrinking into the background before they'd made their
presence felt.

"Yeah! You gotta stick by your mates, ain't you?" Shell
agreed.

"But what about you, love? Where d'you work?"

Only when Shell was well into an account of her life in the
office and her boring job on the reception desk did Darren
judge it was safe enough to stand up and get some more
drinks, making sure of tipping an extra measure of vodka
into her glass. That little bit extra always helped.

It wasn't until a lot later that Darren and Shell left the pub.
He was still pretty much together, having held back his
intake, while Shell was ever so tipsy and very easily
persuaded to invite him back to the bedsit she rented. At
this stage, Trevor was pretty much totally forgotten and
Shell was quite happy to thread her arm into Darren's own.

"We make a good couple, you'n'me," Shell remarked,
unprompted, seeing their reflection in a shop window. "A
good match."

Darren looked at the same reflection and took the
opportunity to slightly straighten his open-necked shirt. She
still looked tidy, though the alcohol had made her chin a
little slack and her eyes unfocused.

"Yeah! Like we were meant for each other!" Darren
echoed, using a line that had worked pretty well with
Trace.

"You think so?"

"Course I do, love!"

The way to Shell's flat was far enough to warrant a taxi
which pleased Darren as he was worried whether some of
the Man C crowd might still be around. And then along one
of the anonymous roads between a run-down housing
estate and a row of shops. They got out of the taxi just
outside a tall Victorian block by whose door was arrayed
about a dozen door-bells and associated intercoms. Two
flights up and Darren was wondering whether he'd have to
accept the offer for coffee he'd wheedled out of Shell or if
they could just get straight down to business.

His balls were aching and his trousers were too tight to
disguise his desire from anyone who cared to check.

Shell hesitated by the door to her flat, a key in one hand
and a rather silly smile on her face.

"Coffee, is it?"

Darren saw his chance. Always act first and think later. He
leaned forward, put a supporting arm around Shell's waist
and his lips close to her face.

"It's up to you."

Shell giggled. She let Darren peck her face with kisses and
opened her mouth wide enough for his tongue to enter. At
last! Something liquid! The two mouths grappled together
until Darren's jaw ached enough and Shell's hand had
established the truth of his intentions.

"Yeh! Later, maybe?" Shell agreed.

The door opened into a room dominated by a TV and a
bed. The walls were pasted with posters of film actors and
empty mugs were scattered about on a table and cupboard.
But Darren concentrated his attention on Shell's skirt,
easing it down her slim legs while his other hand grappled
with the clasp of her bra under her short knitted top. And
all the while his tongue and lips monopolised her face as bit
by bit he divested her of her clothes.

And then he paused. He didn't want to crease his suit or
tear his shirt. He stood back, letting Shell finish unclasping
her bra and with practised ease pulled off all his clothes, not
bothering to unlace his shoes. Then he stood in front of her,
still wearing his socks, and his penis erect in front of him
and pressing against her belly.

"I dunno?" she hesitated, standing in only her frilly
knickers.

"Fuck it, love! You know you want to!"

"Yeah. S'pose I do!"

Finally, they were on the bed, both of them starkers, and
Darren, ever the gentleman, knew that for it to be real good
he had to get Shell a bit wetter and a bit freer between the
legs than his probing fingers told him she was. He knew it
was a bit soft, but it got the girls every time, as he eased her
slowly onto her back and plied his tongue and teeth to her
crotch.

Tidy it was. Fucking tidy. Maybe she'd even trimmed it
some time, you couldn't tell. The lips were thick, not at all
ragged, and her clitoris was a tiny little thing that he had to
really slobber around to loosen from its folds and allow his
tongue a chance to find. And as he licked, he could hear
Shell gasping with that urgency and passion he recognised
from Trace and from all the other birds he'd shagged over
the years.

It wasn't long at all until it was Shell who was begging
Darren to enter her, that twat of hers dripping with juice, a
strong smell of earthy passion filling his nostrils, which he
did with slow leisurely strokes that pushed her up and up,
her head pressing against the headrest of the bed. Darren's
eyes met with those of Mel Gibson who featured on a
poster just behind her fanned-out hair.

As always, when Darren was in the action, he liked to
imagine other birds. Imagining the tits and arse he'd seen in
all the pornos he'd rented, and then to compare them with
the bird in his hand. He was fucking lucky. This bird was a
fuck of a lot better than most of them, although her tits
were smaller and she made small gasping noises rather than
the full grunts and yells of the porn stars. Whatever his
mates said, real birds were better than the porno talent. And
this one had a real grip to her snatch, that squeezed his
prick with each leisurely but progressively more urgent
thrust.

But he didn't want to come too soon. He could feel the
urgency in his aching testicles transmitted to his prick,
urging him to release its juice into this unprotected twat.
But that wouldn't do. Slow down a bit.

The sweat and passion and exertion were tiring him, but he
wanted his spunk to leave a message in the best place. And
a place he bet the ineffectual Trevor had never been. In the
thrusts, and twisting, the entry and teasing withdrawal,
Darren let his finger wander. And it slithered down the trail
of fanny batter to the puckered little anus which he slowly
penetrated with an exploratory circuit of his finger. She
gasped appreciatively as she felt the extra incursion.

She was right and ready, Darren thought, letting his penis
slip out of her slippery twat, and then, with a quick plunge
and no warning, straight into her arse.

The next moment or so clearly confused Shell. Perhaps she
wasn't too sure exactly what this new sensation was,
especially as he kept a trio of fingers embedded to the
knuckle in her front, while he thrust urgently and hard into
the tighter and undoubtedly muckier hole.

And then she gasped in apparent disbelief: "Are you fucking
my arse, you bugger?" It was at this point Darren finally let
nature take its course and release all that stored goodness
his aching balls had struggled to confine.

"What d'you think?" he remarked, his penis shrivelling but
still erect enough to keep inside her.

"Fuck off! I didn't give you no permission. Fucking get out
of me!"

"Gladly! Anyway, it's done its job!"

Shell collapsed on the bed, her legs wide open and a
splatter of semen on her thighs and dampening the sheets.
Darren knelt above her, his penis still twitching while he
wondered whether he had it in him to do a proper porn star
money shot, perhaps over her tummy, or even (and this was
something he'd only once persuaded a bird to let him do)
right on her face and eyes.

"You fucked me up the arse, didn't you?" Shell asked
drunkenly, as much out of disbelief as from anything else.

"Yeah! You like it?"

"No one's done that before. Not Trevor. Not no one."

"Good, weren't it?"

"No. It fucking well wasn't!" Shell said more angrily, sitting
up. "I didn't ask you to fucking do that! You fucking leave
now! You just fucking go!"

"You don't want more?"

"No fucking way! You just fucking put your fucking
clothes back on and fuck off! I don't want to fucking see
you again!"

There was a pause as Darren noticed tears welling up in
Shell's eyes and a look of disgust on the rest of her face as
her hand probed between her legs. At this point, Darren
hesitated. He could, you know. It was well within his
power. The bird wouldn't stand a chance.

But Darren was too intelligent for that. It was a mug's
game. The plod would get involved and it'd well and truly
fuck things up. And with his wedding next week, well, it
was the last thing he should do!

Almost meekly, Darren collected his things and got
dressed, while Shell rubbed her bruised and battered vagina
and anus.

"Sorry, love! Just got carried away, like!"

"Just fuck off! Don't fucking say nothing!"

Darren trotted down the stairs of the block of flats, easing
the door behind him and plucking his mobile out of his
pocket. He had kept the card the taxi-driver had given him
so he knew how to catch a cab home. He punched in the
number while striding along.

That was a fucking blast! That Shell had been a fucking
good screw.

Darren thought about Trace, reminiscing on her rather
more prominent bosom and her looser twat. He felt good.
In only a week's time, there'd be another expression to
describe what he'd just been doing. And it wasn't 'playing
the field' or 'sowing the wild oats'.

It would be 'adultery'.

Darren smiled. He could hardly wait!





For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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