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Subject: RP: Mark: The Alphabet Series: Bean City
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(Note: I am not the author; I am only the archivist.  The author's name
is on this post, and deserves all the credit.

The following story deals with explicit sex.  If you're not old enough
to be here, you're not old enough to read it.  Scram.)

Mark did a whole series with the titles based on the letters of the
alphabet.  I think he got up to "J" before he stopped.  They're all
good, but I personally think this is the best of the lot.


Alphabet B: Bean City

                        BEAN CITY

		by: M a r k <MarkB@aboy.demon.co.uk


Look, I'm a product of my time, okay?  I got my education behind a 
math primer in study hall - Forum, Hustler, like that.  So, y'know, if 
you show me a woman called Cheryl with co-ed looks and pedal-
pushers, I'm just programmed to react, yeah?  Or, if I come across 
a raven-haired beauty (I'm practically quoting here) who goes by 
'Sadie' and is wearing, I dunno, five-inch heels and her hair in a 
bun...well, all that stapled sexuality's just gonna kick in, right?

My personal thing is stockings and garter belts - I'm thirty-five 
friggin' years old and I'm still looking for crooked seams.  I mean, 
arrested development or what?  Then again, I figure this is cool.  I 
mean, everyone's got to get their hang-ups somewhere and I 
guess I'm just lucky I got dealt the standard cards.  At the very 
least, it makes MTV bearable.

So.  I'm in the Plough and Stars on Mass Ave.  I've wandered in 
after three hours at Ken's watching the Sox.  (They were playing 
like a bunch of co-eds in pedal-pushers, if you're interested.)  I get 
a beer.  I'm looking for someone to grouse with - I mean, but for the 
lousy transmission on a Greyhound Bus in December 1958, I'da 
been born a Mets man, and life would've been a deal more fulfilling.  


 
Anyways, there's a whole lot of people hanging out in the Plough - 
Harvard spectacles, some regular neighbourhood types, many Irish 
- one or two of them even know where Ireland is.  And - yeah, 
you're ahead of me - this woman.

I swear, you couldn't make her up.  She's nearly six feet in her 
patent boots.  She's got a mane of hair as black as scandal, and 
skin so clear and white you could show a movie on it.  She's 
wearing, what d'you call them, those pants for horse-riding, and a 
man's tweed jacket over a ruffled cream shirt.  Probably.  I mean, 
I'm trying to give you the picture here, and I'm coming over like a 
Jackie Collins buy-it-and-bang-it novel, but, no word of a lie, in 
retrospect it's tough to picture her with her clothes on.

Well, I'd love to tell you that I went over and bought her a drink - 
but it didn't happen that way.  In fact, a whole bunch of us got 
talking round the bar, and she kinda joined in.  You know how it 
goes.  It got so my contributions were covertly aimed at getting a 
raise outta her - and hers were more directed at me than the rest of 
the group.  I went to the john - and took the stool next her when I 
came back.  She ordered me a beer.  I ordered her a beer.  Next 
thing you know, we might as well have been on our own for all the 
attention we were paying to the debate raging over the talent or 
lack of it of Mr Strawberry.  (Tell the truth, there were moments 
there where I nearly blew the whole thing, by cutting back to the 
general chit-chat.  I have strongly-held views on Strawberry.)

Okay, okay - I know what you're saying.  'Cut to the chase, Jack!  
When does she get her tits out?'  Bear with me here.

She's got this real class accent, so I say, "You're British, right?"

"English," she comes back, kinda sharp, but smiling.

Well - I think, What diff?  But I don't want to get on her wrong side, 
so I nod.  "Right, English.  I really like that accent.  I mean, I really 
like that."

"I know you do," she says, still with that smile.  "I know what boys 
like."

Damnedest reply - am I right? 

I grin.  "Sorry - I don't get it.  What you saying?"

"Just that I know what you boys like - probably better than you do 
yourselves.  Would you mind going to the cigarette machine for 
me?"

Like she hasn't got legs or something!  Which she has - real slim 
long ones, crossed at the knee, with one booted ankle curled 
around the hoop of the barstool.  Still, these Brits - they're kind of 
old-fashioned; maybe she figures that I'm a gentleman and I'll go 
and get her smokes.  I get the smokes, but the jury's still out on 
whether I'm a gentleman.

Turns out her name's Clara Bond.  Yeah, yeah - if I'da been a little 
less drunk I'da seen it coming.  She's an oil trader and she's in 
town for some convention.  She has friend in Cambridge - "a very 
dear old chum" - and she called in on the QT, but no dice.  So she 
just picked the first bar she saw and came in off the street.  She's 
staying at the Metropole across the river.  She taps my beerglass 
with a long red nail.  Would I like to come back for something 
stronger?

Maybe I'm a little over-eager.  "Is the Pope a Catholic?" I josh.

"I very much doubt it," she shrugs, oozing off the barstool.  "Come 
on."

The car is low and curved and blue - no more than a bruise on the 
asphalt.  "Whoo," I whistle.  "Some wheels."

"You drive," she says, tossing me the keys.

"Hey, I dunno.  I'm way off designated."

"I said, you drive," she comes back - with that snap again.  So what 
am I gonna do?  It's her premium.

I push it hard up toward the bridge - it rolls across the river like a 
storm front, all growl and purpose.

"Feel the power of this baby," I say, as we turn up toward Nob's 
Hill.

"You haven't even opened it up yet," Clara murmurs, looking 
straight ahead.  "That's when you feel the real power." She lifts one 
foot and puts it on the dash, right by the steering wheel.  I've only 
ever seen guys do that.  She rocks her toe back and forth a coupla 
times.  "These shoes need cleaning," she says.

I practically have to trot to keep up with her as she strides through 
the lobby of the hotel.  We get up to her room.  Me, I haven't stayed 
in many hotels, but I reckon a classy room is one where you can't 
see the bed when you walk through the door.  In this one, you 
couldn't even see the room - there was this kinda inner lobby 
bigger than my whole apartment.  We go on through.

"What would you like?" she asks, opening a drinks cabinet.  No 
dollar-slot, I notice.

"Well, I dunno..."

"Of course you don't.  But I do."

I sit down on this low chair.  She takes off her jacket and throws it 
on the ottoman.  Stands there against the window with her hands 
on her hips, the whole of Boston twinkling between her thighs.

"Take your clothes off," she says.  She's still wearing that superior 
fucking smile.  Seems to me it's time I gave her something to smile 
about.  I strip and stand there with this no-shit face on.  I also have 
on an erection that surprises even me, what with six pints of Miller 
and two Guinnesses I drank on the barman's tab.

"Going good-to-firm," she says, running her eyes up and down.  
"But I don't recall saying you could get stiff.  I don't believe I gave 
that permission.  That's very naughty of you, lad."

"Yeah, that's me all over," I tell her.  "How 'bout me all over you?"

She unbuttons a couple of button on the blouse.  "Oh, aren't we 
forward?  We don't like our boys to be forward.  I suspect a 
spanking might be in order."  

Now, listen, I've read about this stuff.  I mentioned my literary 
interests, right?  And I figure I have that All-American live-your-
dream attitude thatmade this country great.  But - excuse me - no 
fucking way.  

I make this clear to Clara, using more or less those words.  She 
seems unfazed.  "Oh, now - I thought you were going to be an 
imaginative and adventurous chap," she frowns (but still smiling).  
She pulls the blouse out of the waistband of the horse-riding pants, 
shrugs it off her shoulders and tosses it at me.  I catch it without 
looking - my eyes are glued to her tits.  

To me, it's amazing that there could be one such perfect breast in 
the world, let alone two.  Up to that point, I'd assumed she was 
wearing a brassiere.  We're talking firm; we're talking round; we're 
talking arrogant uplift; most of all, we're talking no more than eight 
feet away from my sticky fingers.

She runs her thumbs up around her nipples.  "What are you 
prepared to do, Jack, to get your hands on these, hm?  Surely 
they're worth a little pain?"

No, sorry, it's just not me.  "Listen, lady..." I begin.

"You may call me 'Mistress'," she interrupts.

"...Listen, lady, I'm just your regular Irish bar pick-up.  A jar of mayo 
and something that goes 'buzz' is about as weird as I get.  So how 
about some..."

She's peeled the pants down.  They're rumpled over her boots.  I'm 
trying to look unimpressed but I've got six-and-seven-eighths of 
gristle calling me a liar.  She leans back against the cold window, 
and spreads her knees.

"What's it worth, Jack?"
  
Well, I met a guy once who was wondering how to invest a spare 
half-a-million dollars.  He could have done worse than invest it 
between Clara's legs.  Thick black hair threw the pink into sharp 
contrast.  The lips unfolded as her fingers pushed the button - they 
rolled apart like the doors to a departure lounge.  She ran a finger 
along the crease, never taking her eyes off me.  Her voice was 
down to a whisper.

"Look at my cunt, Jack.  Look at my wet, tight, wanting cunt.  And 
you have to do so little to get it.  You have to suffer so little.  You're 
already suffering, Jack, aren't you?"

You could have held Olympic diving trials off the end of my dick by 
this point.  But when I thought about lying down and having my butt 
beaten - well, you've got to follow your gut instinct, however hard 
your cock hollers.  

On the other hand, said my throbbing shaft, don't knock it till you've 
tried it.

"How about I paddle you?" I asked, always the man with the compromise.

She didn't even acknowledge the suggestion.  She just turned and 
put her hands flat against the window, bending over and looking 
back at me across that marble English shoulder.  Her butt was 
pushed out as she crab-walked her feet apart.  "Do you like my 
arse, Jack?"  ('Arse'! Not 'ass', but 'arse'!  Oh, that nearly sold me, 
right there.)  "Can you see my lovely little hole?" 

Yeah, I could see it.  Above the flowering lips, as they blossomed 
amongst those jet black curls - a little bud of pink.    

"You can take me up the back way.  You can slide your throbbing 
cock right into my willing arse, Jack.  I'll let you do it.  But..."

"But me no butts," I said, which I thought was pretty funny.  She 
didn't laugh - I guess I'm no Bob Hope.

"All you have to do, is lie down on the bed, and I'll spank you.  Not 
too hard.  Just a few with my hand and a few with the belt.  That's 
not so bad, is it?"

She could see she was getting through.  I had my hand on my dick, 
and I was stroking slow.  Her eyes were twinkling.  "Yes, that's it, 
Jack.  You think about it."

"And then..?" I asked, my voice cracking.

She ran the side of her hand up between her cheeks.  "Then I sit 
on your face for a few minutes, and suffocate you with my dripping 
cunt.  It'd be a pleasure, wouldn't it, Jack?"  She turned and kicked 
off her boots and pants.  Sat down opposite me, resting a knee 
over one arm of the chair, so that her pussy was wide open, 
glistening, alive.  

"Well," I croaked.  "I dunno..."

My dick was all for it though.  It was leaping about in my hand like a 
puppy at the park.

"You see, Jack - I need to be cruel to get my juices flowing 
properly.  I have to punish you for being a dirty boy, and lusting 
after my creamy little twat.  We all have our little kinks, don't we?" 

"Uh, I guess," I admitted.  "But when you've done with the 
dominance bit..."

"Oh, then you can have whatever you want, Jack.  I'll suck your 
cock.  You can fuck my tits, my arse, my cunt.  You can have me 
over the coffee table, or in the shower.  You can screw me from 
behind right out there on the balcony, if you want..."

That did it.  She realised, of course - but she was too late.  
WHOOSH!  I came like a Comanche raiding party.  Cum splattered 
all over my chest, pump after pump of it.  It was definitely one of my 
best.  In twenty years of beating it, I don't believe I've had such a 
satisfying jerk-off.

She was screaming fit to bust, calling me every color of selfish 
sonofabitch, but you can't argue with a wet stomach.  I picked up 
her blouse from the floor beside me, and mopped up the pool of 
jism that was collecting in the hollow of my breastbone, grinning the 
while.

"Like you say," I shouted after her, as she stormed off to the 
bathroom and  slammed the door, "we all have our little kinks..."




From: M a r k <MarkB@aboy.demon.co.uk>



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