Man Meets Woman 1

This is a quick read. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it.

This story is entered in the April Fools Day contest. Please vote.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are 18 years or older when in sexual situations.

Somewhere in the bowels of New York City

You see the back of his head, his glossy black hair still gleaming in the faint light. Over his shoulder your eyes catch a woman walking, wearing a wide brimmed straw hat, her curvaceous body encased in a form fitting flowery dress that was cut a bit too short to be comfortable. She walks confidently in her four inch bright red pumps, walking as she didn't have a care in the world. And who uses a cigarette holder? She does. She's carrying an unlighted cigarette in its holder. She's stroking the holder as if she was stroking a dick.

Fuck, I haven't seen anything that hot since I walked in on my sister giving her boyfriend a blowjob.

He's like a snake. He's like a predator. He straightens up into a ready position, alert and ready to strike. She walks into the belly of the bar. A man jumps out of his prime seat, generously offering it to this stunning platinum blonde. The seas part as she sashays to the vacated chair, leaning over and giving the man a chaste kiss. But I see her agenda. As she bends over to kiss this gallant man she wiggles her tush to the amusement of all behind her. And they are amused. The men gather like a pack of wolves, arching their backs at the scent of fresh prey.

The man sees the woman plow through the men like a bowling ball through pins as she takes her rightful seat. He sees her in a command position in the bar, with the men circling like vultures. She nonchalantly crosses her legs, her dress riding up on her gleaming white thighs. She leans towards the bartender and flashes her ample cleavage and her unlighted cigarette at him.

"Gotta light honey?" she asks. Every man in the bar reflexively reaches for his lighter.

The bartender, unfazed by the lewd display of her goods, gives his standard response. "There ain't no smoking in the bar."

"That's preposterous," utters the blonde bombshell, loud enough for those around her to hear.

"I'm just telling you the law," grumbles the bartender as he casually polishes a wine glass.

"You go tell the law to fuck itself," she says in a slightly louder voice than before.

"Now give me a fucking light," she barks. She twists her body and turns her head towards the bartender with the cigarette holder waving in her mouth.

I can see her from the side as her body twists, and that means I can see the profile of a serious pair of cans. This woman is stacked to my disbelief and to the others witnessing her performance.

She tips back the brim of her hat and gives him a glare. This glare is military grade. This glare would down a cruise missile. The bartender wilts. He puts down the wine glass he was polishing and timidly pulls a lighter out of his pocket, and with his hand shaking, he lights her cigarette.

"Thanks," she says with sincerity. She turns to the man sitting in front of her and says, "Hey Bruno (his name is actually Alan), throw him a sawbuck ... now!"

Bruno can't get the ten out of his wallet quick enough. He flings the paper money in a wad towards the bartender and bends his head forward, expecting to receive a grateful pat on the head from his owner. The woman does one better. She pulls Bruno towards her and shoves his head between her tits, mashing his glasses into her chest as well. She flexes her tits and Bruno's head comes shooting out like it's been pooped out by her body. His slickened head is now his badge of honor. The Queen of the Bar has anointed him as a Knight with her little tit wash in front of her loyal subjects.

All sigh as they put themselves in the place of Bruno. They collectively feel those luscious globes massaging their angelic faces as they move one step closer to nirvana.

The wolves circle closer. They smell blood. Another wolf slinks forward, taking the seat graciously vacated by Bruno. He offers to buy the lady another drink. She accepts. She downs the drink with alacrity to the joy of all around, but little do they know that this little hussy could drink each and every one of them under the table and still have enough energy to fuck all night. The man buying the drink wants his reward. He gets it. The wolves lick their chops as they see the woman lift up one of her nasty red pumps. These pumps are not the general "fuck me" pumps. These pumps are "fuck me again and again you fucking whore" kind of pumps. Every time I see them in action I want to immediately drop to my knees and lick the fucking shit out of them. She dangles her foot and with the pointed heel touches the dead center of the crotch of the man, and then slowly increases the pressure of her stiletto, making the man start to sweat as the slow push now has him in the predicament of fight or flight. The crowd gasps at the exquisite torture she is administering to him. The cowardly dude takes the latter option, running away, ashamed that he literally can't take the pressure of this she-devil of a bitch of a motherfucker woman.

And now it's The Man's turn. The man I was behind at the beginning of this story. The man that was the lone wolf, working alone at night. He laughs to himself as he watches the two before him go down like gnats circling a flame. They were fodder. They were for the amusement of the crowd. She was warming up. She was warming up for me. The professional. The one who knows how to get this done. This man slides though the thick crowd like a hot knife through butter. He stands in front of this vivacious, fuckingly amazingly gorgeous woman and says, "I know the answer."

The woman regards his first line as if she was sipping a fine wine. She swirls the words in her mouth. Is it sweet cherry or is it sour apple? Her taste buds will tell her whether she will swallow or spit out his words. He flinches slightly. He, even more than the crowd, cannot stand the wait for her reply.

She tells him, "Buy me another drink. And I wanna new pack of cigarettes." She crumbles her empty pack into a ball and tosses it on the bar, watching it roll down its length. A dweeb farther down the bar snatches it as a souvenir. "Where the fuck is Bruno when you need him?" she laments to no one in particular. The man orders her another drink. Bruno miraculously appears again, but then scrambles to run outside to buy her a fresh pack of cigarettes.

What the fuck was she smoking you ask? Oh yeah. Marlboro. The regular ones. The ones that men smoke. None of this girlie shit for her. She can drink, smoke and fuck with the big dogs.

The man has passed the first hurdle. He sits in a chair that has gone vacant at the end of the night during each and every one of this ball bustin' bitch's appearances here, and there have been plenty, so basically no one in my memory ever passed the first hurdle. I'm not sure what happens after this. The wolves sit on their haunches and watch in awe as this man casually goes beyond the first step to nirvana.

"So you have the answer smart guy?" she asks as she smacks her painted ruby colored lips (that match her shoes) as if she's popping a bubble gum bubble. Shit, for the ones that were watching carefully, as she's delivered this line she shifted her weight so her skirt rode up two more inches, exposing her scanty, frilly, panties. I almost fucking creamed in my pants when I witnessed that expert move.

"Ten," he utters confidently, looking downward at his crotch area.

"Ten?" she asks, as if she has no fucking clue what he just said.

The man stumbles a bit. The wolves back off slightly. But he catches himself, much to the relief of the man and the crowd. "You know ... you know ... ten inches."

"Ten inches?" she repeats in a tone of voice that deafens the wolves and alerts those who weren't previously listening.

The man nods as if he is ashamed of something. This woman is good. Really fucking good.

She leans slightly forward as if the man couldn't hear her previous answer. "You mean ten inches of gorgeous man meat that will split my sopping wet cunt in two and make me see my late grandmother as I have the greatest fucking orgasm of my life? You mean

that

ten inches?"

The man sits up. The wolves sit up. Could there be another level of reward?

She pauses and puts her finger to her chin.

Somehow she is running the processing of a difficult mathematical equation on a parallel track.

The man is practically leaning off his chair.

"Nawww. Not interested," she says as the man droops forward, almost falling off his perch. She slips off her stool, flicks the end of her ash on the bar, straightens the small piece of material she calls a skirt, watches as the crowd parts, and struts, clicking her heels on the terrazzo floor as the crowd watches.

It's her favorite part. The clicking.

I should know.

I'm her husband.

As she's hustling out of the bar she grabs me by the collar. "Let's go big boy. Momma's got an itch and you're going to scratch it."

She itches a lot.

But I know how to scratch.