0 comments/ 33063 views/ 1 favorites Battle of the Sexes By: Milkyway You want a story? I'll give you a bloody story, but I warn you now, if you're looking for a quick fix and cheap thrill, get yourself a fucking video. Make sure it's one of those Yank formulaic videos, you know the kind I mean; boy meets girl, girl goes down on boy, boy goes down on girl, they fuck, maybe a bit of anal if you're lucky, and he shoots his muck all over her chest/face/arse. Minimal speech, maximum use of ridiculously unconvincing groaning and moaning, but what the hell? You don't want to risk actually using your imagination now, do you? For those of you still with me, I'll start my story. My name is Tom Johnson, and I'm an Englishman. Now I'm not talking your posh public schoolboy wanker who doesn't know the first thing about the realities of life and spends his time wishing we still had the Empire so he could fuck off and exploit a few backward nations. Nor do I mean one of these long-haired hippy fuckers who thinks we should all live together in love, and who look at a bloke like me; proud, hard-working who enjoys his beer, mates, birds and football and calls me a fascist just because he doesn't belong to anything and can't understand people who do. No, I'm a normal, working-class London lad. I was born and brought up in Wandsworth, South London and I work less than a mile from where I live now, and from where I was born. Why am I telling you all this? Because it's my fucking story, and I'll tell it how I like. If you don't like that, you can piss off. I'm not just a waffling cunt though, it does have a purpose, because what I'm going to tell you about won't have the same impact if you don't know what makes me tick. Now my job is a decent one, but I have to work like a Trojan. I left school with fuck-all in the way of qualifications. Too busy playing football, getting into rucks with other schools, chasing birds and going in the pubs which would serve you under age so long as you paid up, shut up and knew to scarper if the old Bill came by. However, I got myself an apprenticeship with a mate of my uncle's, just before the whole apprenticeship idea went down the pan. He runs an engineering workshop, and I work there with him and two other blokes, making specialist parts for lathes, drills and the like. Not your DIY tosser's Black&Decker you understand, this is serious kit. To keep costs down and to make sure we survive, we take it in turns to drive the delivery van. I don't mind it as it gets me out of the workshop and you get to meet new folk. I've scored more than once with some tart working in the reception at one of my drop-offs. Give them a good line, make them laugh and they're round your flat exercising their cheek muscles before you can say "blowjob"! On the day in question I was going through the list of deliveries, making sure I'd run a route which would minimise time, and avoid the congested areas around rush-hour. Most of our drops are at other engineering companies, or car workshops and the like, so I'm a bit surprised to see an address near Edenbridge. That's serious money country - all manor houses, private golf courses and the like. I checked with the boss and he told me it's some eccentric rich bastard who builds his own engines from scratch. The boss hasn't a clue what he does with them, but he wanted a lathe bit made to exact specs, and wanted it delivered before he got back from Hong Kong, or Bangkok or some such place. Probably needs some time to relax after getting full-body massages off 14 year old Thai birds. I'm sneering at my mental image of this old wheezy posh cunt trying to get a hard on with some exotic bird, but truth be known I'm a bit jealous of someone who doesn't have to rely on picking up pissed slags in the curry house 'cos the good-looking tart in the nightclub reckons she's onto a better offer from some squaddie, just because the wanker's wearing a blazer. The boss tells me this bloke's wife will sign for the part, and I'm not looking forward to having to deal with some snotty cow who'll no doubt be desperately denying she's hit 50 by smearing herself in a couple of hundred quid's worth of creams and lotions every day. Probably had so much plastic surgery you could build a spare human from what they've chucked away. And who'll treat me like some kind of peasant just because I don't pronounce all my aitches and I've got short hair and a Chelsea tattoo. Fuck 'em. I know deep down though that whilst I may not exactly tug my forelock, I'll be respectful; I've got a good job and one call from a rich slag to my boss and 10 years good work or not, I'll be out on my ear. It's dog eat dog, and the rich bastards have cornered all the Pedigree Chum. When I get to the house I'm knackered. It's half three, and every fucking road I've driven down has had some blind cunt along it 15 minutes before, deciding now's exactly the time to have the mother of all pile-ups. It's a fucking conspiracy; "Johnson's on the van today, so let's all go out and drive like Belgians". I'm hacked off, and don't want to be out at Edenbridge at this time of day. The boss has called me asking what the fuck I'm playing at, and when I told him I hadn't even done Edenbridge he just laughed and told me to keep the van tonight and bring it in tomorrow. They're obviously knocking off early and no doubt will be off down the pub for a few wets, whilst Tom does the good work, and what's worse it's fucking hot. Even just in shorts and a t-shirt I'm sweating like a bastard here. Wankers! Mind you, I'd be the same if it was one of the others out here. But I'm not best pleased, especially when I find the house: it's got a drive the size of a fucking runway - and I'm not kidding. Sweep off the fine grade gravel, tarmac it, draw some white lines down the middle and you'd have Jumbo Jets mistaking it for Gatwick. The house at the end is surprisingly small, and I only say that because I was expecting Buckingham Palace. It looks to be about 7 or 8 bedroom sized, nicely done I have to say. Immaculate lawns and I'm feeling well out of place here. I'm not sure if I should use the front door, or if there's some tradesman's entrance at the back for pondlife such as me. Fuck it; my principles assert themselves and I pull up at the front door intending to ring the bell and take the piss out of the butler. A place like this, and they've got to have some stuck up cunt in a bow tie to serve them their brandy. The door opens before I've got two steps away from the van, and it's no butler, it's quite obviously the wife. I'm struggling not to look like some cunt-struck schoolboy because there's no doubt about it, she's a looker. Probably 35, maybe even 40, and very good looking with it. To a 26 year old London lad with red blood in his veins and spunk in his bollocks she's well in the bracket, but I don't want to give the bitch the satisfaction. "Got a delivery for you" I say, not too surly, but hardly polite "Is it the bit for my husband's lathe? Your manager called earlier, and he's already apologised for your lateness" Cheeky fucking cow! For one, he's not a manager; he's the boss, gaffer, the man, the geezer, but he's not some fucking suited financial whiz-kid manager! He must have put his phone-voice on for her. And I wasn't given a time for this drop anyway, so who the fuck is late? But like a good peasant I grit my teeth and politely ask where she'd like it dropped, hoping she'll say up her arse, though with her accent she'd probably refer to it as her posterior. I struggle not to grin. "His workshop is around the back. Drive around the far end of the house and I'll meet you round there" The door closes on me and I try and compose myself as I climb back into the van. She's got very carefully done dark blonde hair, curling in good natural waves down to her shoulders, a really smooth face, perfect teeth and what looks like a fit body. She's wearing one of those summer frocks that rich women and grandmothers wear, but it's got quite a low, square cut neck line and it was enough for me to have copped a look at a massive chest. She must have scaffolding supporting those things, never mind a bra. I'm at risk of getting a hard-on, and that would never do; can't let the slag know she's got to me. I drive the van around the house. Bloody hell! It's as deep as it is wide, and all done in large sandstone blocks. Very nice. Very expensive. Rich bastards! There's a large gravel area at the back, a garage which looks big enough for at least 3 motors, a Mercedes SKL sat outside it. The woman's walking across from some huge great French windows, wide open to let the spring air in and get rid of the mustiness of generations of inbred toffs. The workshop is a brick building about the size of a modest bungalow. She unlocks a door as I pull up and switch the engine off. I haul the lathe bit and fitment out of the back, and lug it across to the shed. Walking inside I can hardly see after the bright sunshine outside. Stupid cow should put the fucking light on! My anger and resentment grow again. Almost as I think it the light comes on and reveals a series of worktops and machinery, and about 3 engines in various states of completion. She smiles at me sweetly enough, and I swear she caught me staring at her magnificent cleavage as she turned. "I'll leave you to get on with it. I presume you know what to do. Come up to the house when you're done. No need to knock, just come in through the door on the far left as you look from here" Obviously this is the only entrance blokes like me are worthy of using. I grunt a reply and crack on with fitting his new toy. Fifteen minutes work and Sir Cuthbert Rich-Twat's newest gadget is mounted and ready to carve some metal. I've mellowed a bit having got my teeth into doing some proper work. Have to admit to myself that apart from the crack about being late the lady's not exactly been rude. Just need to get a signature and be on my way. Should be back by five if the traffic's not too bad. Five thirty maybe. Grab a Chinese on the way back, nip into the off-license whilst they're carving up the cats and dogs out back, grab a six pack. Wednesday evening and there's a match on Sky; a chinky, a few lagers and a football game, then up the pub for a couple of pints. Sweet. It's not Chelsea tonight, but Leeds, doing the business for England against some Italian wankers. I grab the paperwork from the cab and stroll across the gravel towards the house, boots crunching loudly, almost cheerful now. The door opens and I'm stood in a kitchen which is by far the largest I've ever seen. There're three tables in there, only one with chairs around it so the other two must be for food preparation when they have their thirty-guest dinner parties. There's no sign of the lady, so I wander toward the door at the far end. It opens into a corridor with a thick carpet, some fucked up design on it. Probably Persian, or something. I don't fucking know. It looks expensive to me, but who am I to tell? There are doors leading off all the way up to the front door, and I haven't got a clue where she is. I think about shouting but can't make up my mind what to say. I don't know her name as the invoice only has the address on it. I can't exactly bellow "Lady!" around the place, and I can't bring myself to stand there calling "Hello?". I'd feel a right wanker. Looking up the corridor again I notice the next door up is ajar. I'll have a look in there and if she isn't in the room I'll go back and just wait in the kitchen, or parlour or whatever these people call it. I look inside the room and she's there alright, sat facing away from me on a sofa. I can see the back of her head, and she's doing something 'cos her head's bobbing up and down. Not much, but there's definitely movement. What the fuck is she doing? Curiosity leads me into the room. The door opens wide with only a whisper across the carpet, the thick pile soaking up any sound my boots make. From closer I can see right down her top, and her breasts are heaving. They're so tight against the dress I can't see any detail, but it's a good view. Just a glimpse of a white bra. As I get closer I see her legs, wide apart as she's slumped on the sofa, the dress pulled up and both hands up inside it. I can't fucking believe it - this posh slag is strumming the cat's whiskers - she's masturbating and my cock reacts immediately. I'm dumb-fucked. What the hell do I do now? I consider the respectful cough, but she'd go fucking mad. She'd probably have me sent to the Tower of London, let alone fired. I back out very slowly, entranced by what I've just seen, but convinced I've got to get out of there. Back in the corridor I hate to admit it, but I panic and almost leg it into the kitchen. Fuck! I've left the door wide open, but I'm buggered if I'm going back near that room. That's jail bait in there. All she'd have to do is call the Bill and they'd have me down a cell in two shakes, giving me a good kicking for daring to approach the ruling classes - fucking coppers doing their loyal servant bit and keeping the working man down for their masters. Cunts. But I don't fancy it. I sit down on one of the chairs, my back to the corridor in some kind of denial of what I'd seen, and wonder how long she's going to be. If I wasn't so rattled it'd be funny, and I raise a smile thinking about telling my mates later. "Did everything look good?" She's used some kind of stealth mode and crept right into the kitchen without me realising. And what's she referring to? I'm like a rabbit caught in the beam of headlights, just waiting for some farmer boy to unleash a barrel full of lead pellets into me. I've turned in the chair to look at her, but I can't fucking speak. "Oh dear, cat got your tongue? Shame, you looked such a confident young man. Still, looks deceive" all this with such a superior smile I could have smacked the bitch. "My husband's lathe. Is it all sorted, looking good?" she repeated the final words as if talking to a five year old. "Er..yes. Fine. Um, just need your signature madam" there, she'd won. I'd stammered, stumbled and then crowned my humiliation by using the respectful term I'd sworn I wouldn't. "Oh dear. You ARE a disappointment" but she takes the form and leans over the table to sign it with the pen I offered her. What the hell was she talking about? Disappointment? How? I can't bring myself to think that this rich upper-class woman had been hoping I'd try it on. The penny drops as she reads through the invoice, probably checking we're not ripping off her husband. She's rubbing my nose in her inaccessibility - she knows fucking well that I can't touch her and she's flaunting that fact. Well, come the fucking revolution I'm going to be straight down here with a Chelsea firm and the lads can go through her til she fucking bleeds. If she likes to pretend she likes it rough, we'll see how she feels when reality bites her in the arse. Literally. Mind you, I'm now getting a dream view down her top - and I get a good view of her bra, stretched to hold her breasts. They're awesome, white and soft looking, very inviting. My mind sees them in the flesh, released from the bra and somehow defying gravity. Must be a pump-up job, along with the thigh-sculpture, the face-lift and the rest of it. Can't see any scars, but a bird like this can afford the top surgeons, not some Asian blagger down Hampstead giving it large with his degree from Popadom Uni. I'm groping them in my fantasy and I'm too late to react as she looks up, and definitely catches me looking this time. "What's your name?" Shit! Here we go, although her tone was friendly enough "Tom" Fucked if I'm giving her more than that "Well Tom, you seem to find my breasts fascinating. And you are a very attractive young man, at least for a thug, but then I like thugs" my head's spinning, my mouth's gone dry and this tart is playing with me. She's got to be, waiting until I touch her and get my DNA on her dress then scream rape and see Tom banged to rights. She's going on: "But you seem a bit shy, and if I'm going to fuck a stranger I like it rough. I just don't think you're up to it. Sorry, but there it is, or rather there it was - gone!" and she giggles. Sounds like chimes in a breeze and I'm starting to realise how much I'd love to give her the good news - really fuck her hard, make the bitch scream in pleasure, then tell her she's shit and she can keep her money, her house and the fucking Merc and walk out. But it's not happening, I'm starting to reply, but what's coming out is bollocks... "I just didn't want to push it, you know, I think you look great but... I never thought you'd fancy a bloke like me" what the FUCK am I waffling about, I'm like a fucking school kid when he suddenly realises he may be on for his first shag, "Sorry Tom. Chance has gone" and that musical laughter rains down on me again, mocking "unless..." She pauses and looks at me as if I'm some exhibit in a modern art gallery, trying to work out what the fuck I'm meant to be, whether she likes what she sees or not. Her left hand reaches up and across and slides the dress strap off her right shoulder, taking the bra strap with it. Her hand goes down inside the front and I'm really struggling not to let my jaw drop open as she scoops her right breast out. Unlike my fantasy this breast droops a bit, but no more than you'd expect for such a mass of flesh. Her nipple is standing out proud, flushed red, and suddenly my confidence starts to return; she's as turned on as I am. "You could have had this to play with all evening, if you'd impressed me" she's still taunting and the thought crosses my mind that she either loves living dangerously or she's fucking stupid - some blokes I know would have knocked her out by now and fucked her senseless, before robbing the house and legging it. "Still Tom, you can touch it if you want" and she's still not showing any emotion, just lightly speaking as if she's offering me a cuppa. My hands aren't exactly clean after setting up her Lord and Master's lathe and a day spent driving and delivering, but she seems to like her lovers a bit grotty, so I reach a hand out and cup her breast. Just out of curiosity I take the weight and am amazed her breast doesn't droop further - it's bloody heavy. I move my hand around so the nipple is against my palm and it's one of the firmest I've ever felt. My fingers gently squeeze the breast and I slide the fingers together until they meet at the nipple, lightly pulling on it before I remove my hand and take a step toward her. She giggles, gives a girlish shriek and runs out into the corridor. Part of me says just walk away, but I remember the line about hell having no fury like a scorned woman, and besides, I'm thinking through my dick now. Following her I somehow know she'll be in the first room again. Sure enough she's stood just inside the room, staring at me with a fixed smile and an intense look in her eyes. "You said 'unless..'." I begin quietly "unless what?" more challenge in my voice now, as she relinquishes control to me. Not sure how I know that's what she's doing, but I'm sure. She backs away from me, still with this weird intense smile on her face, no fear at all. She backs up to the end of the sofa and stops, the backs of her knees against the sofa arm. I've advanced toward her, and almost know what I'm meant to do. The breast is still hanging out and it gives her a vulnerable, disheveled look. "Unless you can shock me!" she gushes - excitement in her voice mixed with what sounds like triumph. Shit! She's still playing with me, and she's got me reacting exactly how she wanted. I'm humiliated but this time it comes out as anger. I reach up to push her but she leans away, overbalances and turning as she falls ends up bent over the sofa arm, her head on the sofa, her full buttocks staring me in the face. My mind is whirling as I reach for the dress hem and flick it up over her back, almost in the same movement hooking her white panties and pulling them down to her knees. One hand on each buttock cheek, pulling apart and without really thinking I'm staring at an opened anus. Her ringpiece looks inviting, although if I stopped to consider it I'd wonder why I'm thinking that. But I don't hesitate and bend my head toward it, mouth gone from dry to soaked, saliva running over my tongue. I touch the tip of my tongue against her ring and feel her flinch. Battle of The Sexes Nothing gives me a sexual high as great as the one I get when I am competing against people, whether men or women. This may sound strange, especially coming from a man. Not just any man. I'm a six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, heavily muscled Black stud. I'm the kind of guy who doesn't take crap from anybody and I don't mind showing people what I've got. I've always been that way. I don't take bull from any man or woman. It's just not my style. I'd rather get locked up than let someone mess with me and get away with it. You've got to keep your self-respect. I am somewhat pugnacious. There are many reasons why. The world is quite hostile to Black males. It's also hostile to anybody who's out of the ordinary. Like me. I was a bisexual Black man leading a closeted life in America. I lived in a world which feared and hated me. I was the youngest of four boys, raised by a single father. I didn't have anything handed to me. Everything I've got, I've had to fight for. I learned very quickly how to defend myself against anyone who got in my way. Mercilessly. It wasn't easy being a ninth grader and weighing two hundred and forty pounds. I was only about five feet eleven inches tall when I started high school. By the time I turned eighteen during my senior year, I had reached six feet two inches in height. I loved contact sports. Football is by all means my favorite sport. Still, this story isn't about football. It's about the time when I stepped forward to represent the men's side in this ongoing battle of the sexes. Don't kid yourselves, it's always going on around you. It's been going on for centuries. Men and women have always struggled against one another for power. The things I see happening to my fellow men in America really make me sad sometimes. I see women making false allegations of rape against innocent men and getting those men locked up for crimes they didn't commit. I see women making false claims of sexual harassment in order to win big settlements from the companies they work and also humiliate some man toward whom they directed their vindictive feelings. It's everywhere you look, man. Seriously. Turn your television on and you will notice that men are often made to look like fools on television. That's why I hate shows like Everybody Loves Raymond. It's painful to watch, a man allowing himself to be humiliated like this on a daily basis. Personally, I would have left my wife if she treated me the way Raymond let his wife treat him on that show. Of course, I'm not stupid enough to get married in the first place. Marriage may sound like a good thing for you when you're in love, but don't fall for it. It's a trap. It's a trap set by society to trap men. Especially American society. If you want any proof, just go to divorce court. Most of the time, it's the wife who wants the divorce. The husband is usually caught by surprise. Sleazy lawyers usually work against the hubby and the wife ends up with the car, the house and the kids. Why would any modern American male want to get married? It's a trap. Unless they changed divorce laws and made them less biased against men, there's no way in hell I'm ever going to get married. Besides, I like my freedom. I love to travel and go anywhere I want to go. If I feel like being with a girl, I can do that and enjoy it for what it is, then it's over. Dating sounds fine to me, unless you're going out with a high maintenance chick. Then, it's a bore. The single life works fine for me, thank you very much. There are plenty more examples of what I consider to be the inequities between men and women. You always hear women complaining about their rights. Why? They can vote. They get more protection under the law than men do. Some of them make more money than we do. Yet they still complain. Bitches, the whole lot of them. Call me whatever you want to call me, you know it's true. It's a sad world we live in, people. Look at any college. You will notice that there are more female students than male students. Why? Simply because someone very clever has manipulated the education system so that it works against boys while favoring girls. How else would you explain why so many male students drop out of high school and college? The laws of this country are so biased against men that I find them outright scary. Take cases of domestic disputes for example. If there's a dispute between a man and a woman living together, and a cop shows up, guess what happens. The cop is automatically going to assume that the man is the aggressor, the violent one, the troublemaker. He's going to assume that the woman is the victim. I've known plenty of violent women in my day. Some women are a lot more violent than most men will ever be. They are more violent than men, and they also get away with it. The courts love to let female criminals go. That's why I despise politically-correct prosecutors, judges and juries. Why? I'm going to give you an example. Let's say there's this guy named Adam. Adam is routinely abused by his girlfriend Melanie. She abuses him verbally, calls him names, makes him feel worthless. Also, she hits him. All the damn time. Let's say that one day he gets fed up and hits her back. Everybody looks at Adam like he's a monster. They want to lock him up. Why? Simply because he was defending himself. Imagine if the story went like this. A chick named Vanessa is verbally and physically abused by her boyfriend James. One day, Vanessa kills James in his sleep. No jury in the land will convict Vanessa, even though she committed murder. See how biased the system is? Man, scary, isn't it? Unfortunately, it's all true. I've always been aware of these things. I'm quite passionate about men's issues. I dedicate myself to representing the male side of gender issues to the best of my ability. I was the first Black male valedictorian of my high school. Usually, valedictorians are females. Not this time. I'm very smart and I put it to good use. I received an acceptance letter from just about every college I applied to. I chose Boston University. I went there on a full scholarship. I was determined to remain at the top of my class, at all times. I loved academia. I always have. My father was a teacher, you know. Sometimes, I missed playing football but my grades mattered to me a whole lot more. What powers could have brought me back to the world of sports? One day, I read a story while online. Something about a female wrestler winning second place in the men's division. This amazed me. This chick had beaten a lot of guys to get to one of the top spots in the world of wrestling. Now, I know a lot of women are a lot more cunning and devious than men. Also, some of them are smarter. That's fine. Men are stronger than women. I don't care what you say. In a test of strength, the man should be the winner. This bothered me. I had nothing against female athletes, I simply thought men and women shouldn't be on the same teams. Separate but equal would work fine for me. Having a female champion in a man's sport was unacceptable to me. You may call me a misogynist, but I was determined to do something about that. Let women succeed in women's sports. I wasn't going to stand by while they took our titles away from us, in our own sports. What do you think I did? I went to the athletic department and tried out for wrestling. I made the team. I thought the sport of wrestling was tough but it was a whole lot tougher than I thought it would be. I met coach George and the other guys on the team. All of them were great athletes from schools around the nation. I was on the heavyweight division. I weighed exactly two hundred and forty pounds. Coach decided that I would compete in the two hundred and thirty five pounds weight class. That suited me just fine. So, I started to come to practice. It was grueling. My sparring partner was Luke, a big and tall red-haired, green-eyed guy from Ohio. He was a state champion in his home state. I was impressed. We worked out together all the time and became friends. Luke showed me some of the key techniques of wrestling. I had always been strong. I'm not kidding you. I've been able to lift three hundred and twenty pounds ever since I was in the ninth grade. These days, I could lift around three hundred and forty if I really pushed myself. Strength is a great advantage in wrestling but it's not everything. Technique and speed often meant victory or defeat in a match. I was determined to win at any cost. I learned the techniques. I practiced hard in the gym. I adapted to the strict diet of the wrestlers. With grim determination, I set out to become a champion. Our first match was against the wrestling team of UMass Boston. The match would take place at the state school's gym. We went there, proudly striding in our school colors. The team from UMass was a bit of a surprise. There were two female wrestlers on the team. This surprised a lot of my fellow athletes, but this didn't surprise me. I had been expecting it. I track down news about female wrestlers in my computer at home. I had watched videos of female wrestlers and seen their pictures. I knew of the matches sanctioned by the United States Girl's Wrestling Association. The USGWA created all-female wrestling competitions. Usually, those girls came from schools all over the nation. Some of these girls were on men's teams, others were on all-female teams. I knew the big names in the world of women's wrestling. So it was no surprise to me when I saw two females on the men's wrestling team of the University of Massachusetts. In fact, I must say that I had been looking forward to it. Our team went up against theirs. Mike Harold from Boston University went up against Lincoln Travis of UMass in a 120-pound match. I watched the two of them going at it. Mike Harold was a tall, slim guy. Travis was a bit shorter and more muscular. I watched them grapple on the mat. I saw them move around. I watched their movements. Mike Harold pinned his opponent in one minute twenty seconds. The gym exploded as people applauded. Mike went back to his seat. Many of us nodded respectfully. There were a couple more matches going on. On our side, Michael Jenkins went to face Luther Atkins of UMass in a 189-pound match. Jenkins defeated Atkins by technical fall in sixty seconds flat. I smiled. We had some good wrestlers this year. The next match was in the 215-pound class. From our team, Nicolas Stephens went to face the wrestler from the other team. I watched as the UMass wrestler stepped onto the mat. It was a girl. This surprised me. There are plenty of women who wrestle on men's teams but these females are usually in the lower weight classes, like anywhere from 95 pounds to 130 pounds. It's rare to see a female in the heavier classes. They don't do well in them either. My heart was racing as Emma Vaughn of UMass squared off against Nicolas Stephens. I watched them move around. They grappled. My eyes were riveted as the match dragged on for two minutes, then went into overtime. Nicolas Stephens won his match, but not by pin or technical fall. He won by means of an escape. I watched as Emma Vaughn shook hands with her opponent before returning to her seat. I couldn't believe it. This girl had actually taken a heavyweight male wrestler into overtime. Obviously, females were stronger than I thought. Even in the heavier weight classes. Beside me, Luke gently touched my shoulder. I looked at our team captain, the beefy redhead. He grinned at me. I smiled back. Our team had won. We were going home happy. I wasn't happy. I was actually worried. These females were pretty damn good. I had underestimated them when I thought they could only do well in the lower weight classes. I wasn't going to underestimate them again. That night when I went home, I checked out Emma Vaughn's stats online. She was a wrestler from Norton, Alaska. A tall young Irish American woman. She was the daughter of Matthew Vaughn, a famous wrestling coach from Alaska. I knew from reading stories about female wrestlers that some of the best among them were coached by their fathers. She had been wrestling ever since she was a child. She won third place in a regional championship when she was in the tenth grade, then she finished second place in the 189-pound weight class at a wrestling championship tournament during her senior year. This girl rarely lost matches. Apparently, she'd beaten a lot of male wrestlers during her career. I needed to watch out for her, and others like her. They were a threat. I continued with my life. I maintained my five-point-zero average. It wasn't hard. College was very easy. Yet academic achievement no longer held my interest. I was obsessed with wrestling. When I wasn't in the gym working out and lifting weights, I was practicing wrestling moves with male friends of mine. I wanted to have an edge over any wrestler I would face on the mat, male or female. I was strong. That didn't count for too much, especially against female wrestlers. Male wrestlers are stronger than most female wrestlers but some still lose to the girls. The girl wrestlers usually have more technique than their male counterparts. It's their way of compensating for lack of brute strength. I decided to enhance my training. I needed to become a ruthless, destructive fighting machine. Yet I wasn't there. I wasn't the kind of athlete that I wanted to be. Coach George sensed that in me. We had some words. He was curious as to why a guy like me was on the wrestling team. Most student athletes weren't academic luminaries. Some were pretty decent, though. I told him that I wanted to become the damn best wrestler in history. So far, I had yet to face anybody on the mat in an official match. I wanted very much to fight someone. I had all this pumped-up energy inside me and basically nowhere to put it. It can be very frustrating, if you know what I mean. Coach George paired me up with Arthur Leland. Arthur Leland was the assistant coach. He was also a master of martial arts. I met the man and he was alright. He told me that if I was willing to learn, he was willing to teach me. I couldn't believe my luck. This guy was a national champion in wrestling and a Karate and Judo champion. With him teaching me, no one could get in my way. The wrestlers of this world wouldn't know what hit them. I thought it was going to be easy. I was wrong. To be continued. Battle of the Sexes I had always flirted with Clare, she is good fun and desperately in need of a boyfriend. We had tried to match her to several of our single friends and her best friend my girlfriend Susan used to say she would have a much better chance if she lost a little weight. Clare was not really fat, she had a very big round bum and big breasts but quite a trim waist and had I not been with Susan I would certainly have been interested myself. She has short black hair, which I think if it were a little longer would make her look slimmer anyway. Clare kind of feels relaxed with us and has spent many an evening with us on the sofa watching a movie or chatting whilst demolishing our fast depleting wine supply. Susan and Clare take turns to cook and we even all slept together in a hotel one night when a family room we had booked turned out to have only one double bed. Although I saw Clare in her skimpy knickers there was no threesome which I had secretly hoped for and Susan kept hold of me in bed so my hand could not inadvertently wander onto Clare's curvy form which was so tempting being that close. Susan and I have been a couple for four years and she is quite shy, I think mainly due to her tiny breasts. She is very pretty with long dark hair and frame so petite she has to buy children's clothes, in order to get anything to fit. We are very active sexually and she has gained much more confidence than she had, with my encouragement for her to show off a bit more. Susan has great legs and the best butt I have ever seen. I can get both her bum cheeks in one hand and she loves the fact I am obsessed with her arse. My best mate Jerry lives in the Northeast and we don't see him as much as I would like and Clare was getting quite excited when he was coming to visit. Although she was Susan's best friend she has never met Jez but has heard all the stories and thinks we sound very similar. Sue and myself laughed about the possibility of a match, as Jez likes his women like stick insects it was highly unlikely. Susan frequently complained that Jez had been a bit too familiar with her as she put it, and I had to have a quiet word over a pint and tell him to keep his hands off my girlfriend's bum, although I didn't mind really. I suppose it's a North East thing but we spend lots of time in the pub when we see Jez, and although I thought Clare looked stunning Jez was doing all he could to pull the barmaid who had tried to short change me earlier. Apart from sticking his pool cue up Sues short skirt and several smutty comments about parking his bike in Clare's cleavage or bum crack we had a pleasant, funny inoffensive evening. Well that was until we started to argue on the walk back about why men in general were more intelligent than women were. We laughed at ridiculous arguments trying to prove our points and then Clare had the brainwave of proving it by a trivial pursuit challenge boys against girls. Just before the first throw of the dice Susan was goading us by saying how easy this was going to be, so I suggested if they were so confident we should play strip trivial pursuit. Susan immediately said no way but Clare was up for it as she was certain they would win. Susan reluctantly agreed and as we were working out that we had to get into six items of clothing each, I could tell Susan was really nervous as she does this lip licking habit when she is really under pressure. So the girls started but we struck first with a history question and they lost a shoe each, which as part of my rules, we removed and they would have to in turn undress us if we lost. They quickly lost again on Science and Nature and Jez pulled Susan's other shoe off as I slipped Clare out of her short boot to reveal her cute small feet. We refilled the drinks and I could tell Susan was really on edge and she flushed as she had to loose her shirt and Jez peeled off Clare's T-shirt. Clare proudly displayed her huge boobs in her skimpy bra and Susan looked very embarrassed in her thick padded bra still looking pretty flat against her chest. We had still not lost a single item but Susan got an athletics question right and Clare one of the history ones and with in a few seconds we were only one item in front of the girls. Then we got a geography question right, quite by chance more from our football knowledge but of course we would never tell the girls that. It was my turn to undress Clare and I unclipped her bra when she stood up, she quickly fastened it again and said jeans first I think. I had quite a hard job getting Clare's jeans off, as they were so tight but a great job all the same. I slipped my hands over her big dimply bum and over her strong muscly thighs. At last she stood in front of me, my eyes level with her knickers which could just not contain her abundance of jet black pubic hair, which forced its self out of all the seems of her tight pants. Susan shook her head as I sat there transfixed but was quickly snapped out of it by Jez who wanted to claim his turn. Amidst protests and warnings Jez unzipped the back of Susan's skirt and slowly manoeuvred it past her bum, which looked naked in her tiny thong. Susan already had her hands over the see through front of her knickers and Jez grabbed her hips and thrust his face into her, licking and biting her bum, Clare and I laughed as she struggled free and stepped out of her small skirt and quickly sat back down. Susan was scarlet probably part with rage and part embarrassment. We were looking good as the two questions we needed were now our best subjects and Susan knew I was good on sport. Just as she started to protest and say this had gone far enough I rolled the dice and we landed on entertainment as Clare read the question Jez jumped up as he knew the answer saying to Clare it was time for us to see her big busters. Clare being a sport stood smiling whilst Jez blatantly groped her huge free tits. I was just pleased to still have my jeans still on or there would have been a wig wam situation. Susan stood up accepting her fate and kissed me whilst I took off her bra, her nipples were the opposite of Clare's they were tiny and very erect, she seemed to forget that her trimmed but hairy pussy was also on show through her see thu knickers. She was ready to quit the game but as she was already virtually naked she sat in again and seemed to relax even though Jez was staring at her. We won the game next roll and I had the joy of slowly removing Clare's knickers to reveal the hairiest pussy I have ever seen. Jez removed my girlfriends knickers with his teeth, which he insisted was with in the rules, and of course held on to her bum and pussy to steady himself whilst working. This was the first time any man other than me had seen Susan completely naked. The girls by now were totally relaxed about their nudity and it wasn't long before we were all having sex on the floor. Jez and Clare kept changing positions as they fucked quite openly in front of us, I really think Jez was just getting himself into a better position to view Susan's exposed pussy. I was certainly enjoying watching Clare's big naked arse impaling its self on Jez's cock and her huge breasts swing from side to side. Had some one really wanted to swap partners I think we may have all been up for it as Susan sucked my cock deliberately with her bum and open legs facing Jez, even she was horny beyond caring. In the morning we had a great laugh and no one felt awkward, the girls even want a rematch and have promised to dress up properly, so who knows I may get my hands and cock into Clare yet, and Sue may give in to the lecherous Jez. We have arranged to go to his next month, all three of us so I will keep you posted. Battle Of The Sexes Ch. 2 "So what kept you? Give the posh bird a length?" Paul's pissing himself. I've just walked into The Britannia and it's gone half nine. I've missed the football and it's obvious, as I have to ask the score; Leeds have held them 0-0 away and just have to do the business at Elland Road. I didn't get back to my place until gone eight, and dived straight into the shower, trying to get my head straight. I felt the need for company so came straight up the pub once I'd changed. Something's not right though, as I feel myself blush and feel angry that he's asked me the question. I realise I've got no intention of telling them anything about the afternoon, so I mumble something about being knackered when I got back and having a kip. This is strange, as we normally have a collective post-mortem of all our shags, living it up for laughs. I'm relieved they seem to take my statement at face value and go back to bantering about Leeds' chances in the European cup. I try and concentrate on the conversation, the cold lager flowing into me, hoping it will dull my imagination, but all the time a part of my mind replays the afternoon. I'd slept for a bit over an hour, and woke to find her showered, changed and sitting on the bed smiling at me. I felt a tit as I still had the dildo strapped to me, and I felt well self-conscious taking it off. She'd led me through to the shower and got in with me. I was just stood there as she washed me, and made a thorough job of it too, but all I had to wear were my grotty work clothes, which is why I dived in my own shower when I got home. She'd hardly said a word, but I knew I was meant to leave quickly once dressed. She smiled and at one point said "Thank you, Tom" but I had no idea if she wanted a repeat performance or not, and wasn't sure if I wanted to go through that again, then just as she was showing me out the kitchen door to where the van still stood she'd passed me a card which I put straight in my pocket. I didn't want to stop and read it there in case it said "thanks and now fuck off" or some such message. I was half-way home before I dug it out of my shorts' pocket and had a look, whilst waiting for yet another set of fucking traffic lights to decide that I'd seen enough red to be going on with. 'Jem - 07777 313131' was all it said. I wondered if it was coincidence that her mobile number was so distinctive, or maybe posh fuckers get special treatment. I couldn't remember if her Merc had had a personal plate or not, but reckoned it probably would. Turning the card over I saw handwriting: "Call me now" Now? How the fuck did she know when I was going to read it? Part of me found it funny, this bird trying to play mind games with me; someone her kind would usually describe as a mindless thug. But despite myself I picked up the mobile, plugged it into the hands-free kit and started to dial the number, one eye on the road, the other making sure I didn't misdial. The phone rang twice and her voice filled the cab, rich and smooth, making some subliminal link, me thinking of the woman on the Kenco coffee advert. Assured and confident: "You took your time Thomas. I just wanted to arrange your next visit" Thomas? No fucker ever calls me that; even my mum calls me Tom. And why hadn't she asked me before I'd left? Not that she was asking, she was telling me that I'd be going back. I felt my pulse increase, excitement and lust competing with apprehension, all combining to release adrenaline into my bloodstream. I had to say something in reply but took a second to muster as much assuredness as I could: "Yeah? When's good for you then Jem?" "Call me Jemima" Then why the fuck did she have 'Jem' on the card. Or was this some way of making me feel different? Special? Or highlighting the fact that I'm not part of her world? It wouldn't have surprised me if she'd demanded I call her m'Lady, and I'm not even sure I'd refuse. This was so far outside anything I'd done before I wasn't sure what the rules were. "Ok Jemima, when do you want to meet up? Saturdays are out for me. Football day, lad's night" "No, this Saturday you'll be at mine at eight. But not one minute before. You can be a few minutes late if you like, but not early. I'll see you then, and wear something nice" "Look, I told you; Saturday's for me and my mates, so it'll have to be some other time" And she fucking hung up. I got three loud pips over the speaker and it went dead. I was fuming, and knew she'd be sitting there waiting for me to call back. Fucked if I was going to be so predictable. I'd left the mobile sitting on the passenger seat and turned the radio up. Some techno-dance shit on there, but I didn't care. Just needed something to drown out my thoughts. I used to bring a few tapes with me when I was out in the van but the tape player kept chewing them up, and when it ripped up my bootleg Jam tape I'd decided the radio would have to do. Radio 1 was nothing but pretentious techno-crap and saccharin manufactured pop, and although there were commercial stations that played good stuff you still had radio adverts to put up with, but unless the boss forked out for a new player it was all we had. "Oi! Dip-shit. Are you on something?" Paul and Andy are staring at me. I realise they must have been talking to me but I can't tell what it was about. "Sorry mate, just tired" "Oh, so you've got fucking Aids! Become an uphill gardener have you? A fucking shirt-lifter, and I was about to accept a lager from you" Andy pitches in, giving me shit, but at least I realise it's my round and with a grin at him I make my way to the bar. Quite busy for a Wednesday, but the Britannia's always been popular. I order three lagers and look admiringly at Angie's arse as she bends down to pick up the glasses then wiggles her way to the pumps. A typical London peroxide-blonde barmaid, she looks good until she opens her gob, at which point a fucking awful squeak comes out. She can shatter glass with one giggle, but most of us have been there at least once. She's only a year or two younger than us, but she's always come across as a giggling schoolgirl. She gets turned on by violence and violent men, and whenever we've been in a ruck and come in the Brit to lick our wounds and laugh about who got a kicking and who did the business, she's always there licking her lips and up for a good shafting from anyone who fancies it. I pay for the lagers and carry them back to the lads. They've plonked themselves down at a corner table, leaving me to sit with my back to the room and miss leching at any skirt which may come in. Fucking typical, but I'm not going to whinge about it. The lads are back to the staple subject of our conversations; Chelsea's chances next season. They've fucking blown it for this one again, too much inconsistency. New manager can't even talk English, for fuck's sake. My mind drifts again, back to when I'd got home. I'd managed not to pick the phone up and call Jemima again in the van, but as soon as I got into the flat I'd cracked. Been fucking stupid too; only went and used my land phone, so she had both numbers now. "Hello again Thomas. So you understand about Saturday; not a moment before eight" She's unbelievable, I thought to myself, but even as I'd thought it I'd been answering: "Ok - but why not Friday?" "Sorry, I've got other people to see on Friday. Saturday or not at all. And that's ever" Her voice firm, leaving me in no doubt she meant it. It was only later, on my way to the pub that the thought occurred to me that she must have liked what I'd done, if not me for myself, for her to want a repeat performance at all. During the call though I'd reverted to Mr Putty-in-her-hands. Fucking sad really - a confident and proud bloke turned into a fucking rent-boy, except I wasn't getting paid. She wasn't finished "I may have a little surprise for you. I'll see you on Saturday, and Thomas, don't be a disappointment, there's a good boy" and again she'd just hung up. I drag myself back to the present in time to hear Andy speculating about Saturday's game against Villa. Not much chance of a decent ruck, not against that lot. No real firm to talk of, although they've got a big support base. Fucking whining brummies. Paul's saying how they play good football, the way it should be played, quick passes and breaks, the way Chelsea do it. We remember a few seasons ago, when we played them up at their place, and they had eleven Englishman in their starting line up compared to our one, and their fans were singing "Eng-er-lund Eng-er-lund" at us. Fucking beat us too. But Villa are a nothing team. Rarely struggle too much, but do fuck all either. Can't remember the last time they were in Europe. Still living off '82 when they won the European Cup. Or was it '81? I'm wondering how I'm going to get away after the game, missing the usual ritual of match, pub, grub, club followed by kebab and/or bird. Couple of weeks ago we got invited to a party at some tart's place. Student nurses, five of them living in one fucking house. Andy only shagged the bird whose party it was, whilst Paul did the good thing and kept her bloke chatting about the advantages of wingbacks over a traditional flat back four! Fucking funny, looking back. My brain feels like it's made of cotton wool, can't think straight, another pint landing in front of me won't help, but it tastes good and I decide not to think about it until tomorrow. Fuck it! Thursday afternoon, and I'm getting the thrill again. I'd woken this morning with the germ of an idea. Can't remember where it came from; a dream, something said on Wednesday night - can't remember much of that, I'd got well hammered, raised a few eyebrows the next morning and the boss thought I was still pissed as I'd been wandering round like I was in a trance all day, but it wasn't due to the hangover, it was because I'd been thinking through my idea. I wanted to see Jemima again, or at least to fuck her, but I wanted to do it on my terms. I wanted to be able to look at myself in the mirror without examining myself to see if the weakening was visible. I knew I'd acted like a fucking nonce who gets off on women dominating him. Wearing fucking nappies and being spanked - not my scene at all. So this idea had started to form. I remembered how she'd gone into one when I'd first slipped my length into her, then in the next breath started encouraging me with all that "Tommy knows what mummy wants" shit. I was sure I could get away with this, but I wanted to make it real. For her, at least. One thing I'd always been good at was accents. At school I'd even been encouraged to do a bit of acting, but I'd dropped it like a brick when my mates started taking the piss: "One step away from being a fucking ballet dancer, you ponce", and that kind of thing, so I'd told the drama teacher to shove it, and went back to mugging swots for their dinner money. But I'd never lost the ability to do regional accents, and would practise them when telling jokes. Fucking hard to tell how realistic they are, but I reckoned I could con a posh bird like Jemima, who was unlikely to have been exposed to too many strong accents. Scouse, I reckoned. Fucking pondlife from Liverpool virtually had their own language, and I was sure I could do the voice. Only thing was, would she be seeing her 'other people' on Friday at her home or elsewhere? I hoped it would be elsewhere, and when she got home she'd have a fucking shock. If she was in, and I had to wait until her guests left it would be more complicated, as I wasn't sure what security the house had, but it was bound to be pretty good. I'm no fucking thief, so I'm not exactly skilled at getting into other people's houses, but I hoped I wouldn't have to. If it all went pear shaped I could always bin the idea and just turn up as ordered on Saturday, but I didn't want to. Basically, so long as it went as planned, I'd grab her as she went to open the door, rush her inside, fuck her brains out and leave. I'd want to give her just a hint that it was me, and before anyone starts thinking I'm a fucking rapist, I certainly wasn't going to hurt her. Well, not in any serious way, but I had a strong idea that this would be as good for her as it would be for me. I still had a balaclava and black roll-neck top from a fancy-dress party the three of us had gone to as SAS blokes. Fucking scream that had been - touching up birds and minesweeping beers, and although the soft cunts at the party had known we'd been normal blokes in costume the balaclava thing had really intimidated them. I had black jeans, but had better wear trainers, as she'd seen my boots and I wanted to leave her uncertain. Now my plan was sorted I was impatient. I go for a few pints on Thursday evening and the lads are asking if I'm out on Friday. Tell them I don't fancy it, keeping my powder dry for Saturday. Of course I'll still have to explain to Jemima why I'm not going to make it on Saturday, but I'll think of something, and I get the feeling that she'll have had enough by then. "Hey Tom, tell Andy that joke about the Scouse kid at school in London" Fucking Paul's telepathic. I'm just thinking about getting the accent straight and he gives me a chance. I get Andy pissing himself at the joke. Feel good - being the funny man, but know he wouldn't be so expressive if it wasn't for the five pints of lager sloshing around in his gut. Plastic beer, but better than the warm heavy crap that the traditionalists tell us a true Englishman should drink. What the fuck is a true Englishman anyway? The only cunts who ever talk about it have got nothing to do with me or my kind. They always miss the fucking point, going on about some golden age when everyone did as they were told, and there were no hooligans, no kiddie-fiddlers, no unemployment. A fucking dream, a con. It's always been there, all of it, it's just no one talked about it and very few heard about it when it did come out. That's the price of an all-informed public, and it's hard to keep the news quiet when everyone's got a TV. Educating the Empire cost us the Empire. Churchill said that. Fucking true Englishman there, even if he was a toff. Knew what he was on about, did old Winston. And we're still fighting them on the beaches, only difference being the Government hasn't declared war on them this time. But we know what it's all about. Flying the flag, keeping the Euros aware of us, scared of us. The English barbarians, proud fighting race. I'm fucking rambling now, and I know it. Realise I've been talking aloud as I hear Paul agreeing with me. "Fucking right Tom! Fat cunts in Brussels telling us how to run our country, growing rich on the fucking curry train" "It's called a gravy train, you ignorant wanker" I laugh at him, he's pissed and cracks up too "Gravy, curry, what's the fucking difference? Knew it was something Northern cunts put on their chips" We're all pissing ourselves now, Angie giggling along with us even though she's just walked up to our end of the bar and hasn't a clue what we're laughing at. Daft cow. Looks good tonight though. Nipples showing through a white t-shirt - must be on heat. Some other time she might just have got 7 inches of Chelsea up her tonight, but I'm keeping myself fresh for Lady fucking Chatterley. We grab a kebab on the way home, and I'm wearing half of it by the time I let myself into the flat. Fucking greasy shit, have to be pissed to eat this, although I feel pretty well together. I dig out the black clothes and balaclava and make sure they're handy for tomorrow night. I'll take my motor out there and park it a good distance from her house. Hope there's no intruder alarms in the woods around the grounds, but it's a risk I'll have to take. She's probably got security lights, so I'll have to be careful approaching the house itself, especially if she's in. The gravel could be a problem too; fucking noisy. At least I'd seen no sign of dogs. It suddenly occurs to me that I don't know when her husband's coming home. Could it be him she's seeing on Friday? But if so, and he's just come back from abroad, how could she be free on Saturday? Unless he's one of these weird cunts who gets off on seeing his wife fucked by a stranger. I can't see it being likely, but I'll have to give the place a good looking over when I get there. I turn in but struggle to get to sleep, my mind too active to relax. End up having a wank, thinking about what happened on Wednesday, and what I hope will happen on Friday. Friday evening, and did this fucking day drag or what? I could hardly keep my mind on the job, although Paul, who's pretty much my best mate and would have sussed something was on my mind was out on the van today, thank fuck. Andy really gets into his work, so he didn't notice anything, and I reckon the boss thinks I'm a fucking zombie anyway. At least after this week. I made it home in good time, and have showered and put on some aftershave. Dolce and Gabbana; meant to be a bit classy, though probably not to a rich-bitch like Jemima. But it's all part of the master plan. Give her something to think about, and classy or not, it's distinctive, and that's what I want. I put the clothes on, but wear a beige jacket over the top for the journey there. Feel a bit of a twat wearing it, as it's one my mum bought me to keep me dry at the football. Must be the first time I've ever worn it, and I wouldn't be seen dead in it usually. Before I leave I slip a clasp knife into my jeans pocket; you never know - I may need it to add a bit of steel to my act. I wander down to the garages which go with my block of flats. As I drive off I'm running through the plan, wondering if it'll come off or not. It's nine pm and I reckon at this time of night I'll make it out to her place in forty-five minutes. Straight down the A22, which is a cast-iron bitch of a road during rush hour, but now it should be a doddle. Ten o'clock, and I'm at her place. Sneaked through the woods from the road, and I'm standing looking at the side of the house. The end of it I drove around on Wednesday. Looks dead, but there's a light on downstairs in the kitchen. Just about the only window I can be sure of. No sign of the Merc, but it could be in the garage. I don't know if she'd drive herself or get a cab. Or a fucking limo more like. I realise I could be in for a long wait, and start to make my way around toward the back of the house, keeping in the cover of the trees, just on the edge. I can't make out any security lights but it's too dark now. Should have got here twenty minutes earlier, when there was still a bit of light left. Ah well, wasn't it some general who said no plan survives first contact with the enemy? I can't remember who, but he had a point. I'm feeling like some hero soldier, behind the enemy lines here, setting up the ambush. Only my enemy isn't here, or I don't think she is. I realise that if she pulls up now I'm too far away. If she spotted me as I cross the gravel she could make it inside and lock the door before I could get to her, so I move further around, until the garage and workshop are between me and house. I creep toward the back of the workshop, on grass still, nice and quiet. Looking around the edge of the workshop I can see a couple of wheelie bins at the back of the house. Right next to the kitchen door. I don't remember them from Wednesday but then I wasn't really looking. Making my mind up I race across to them, sure now she isn't in and they're perfect. I can crouch down behind them, concealing myself from the door, and I'm only a few yards away from it Nearly eleven, and I'm getting cramped here, so I stand to stretch my legs. Just as I do I hear a car. Hard to tell if it's coming up here, but then there's the crunch of tyres crossing gravel and I'm home and dry. I must check it's just her of course, but the adrenaline starts to flow and I'm positive this is going to come off. The crunching stops and the engine dies, but I still can't see the car. Fuck! She's stopped round the front. Bollocks! I didn't even think about that. Stupid cunt! I'm swearing at myself, wondering if I can salvage something, and notice lights coming on inside. I'm staring at the garage, furious that the silly cow isn't parking the car there when light comes pouring through the French windows away to my left. They swing open and I can see her, but she's talking to someone. Her hair's piled up and she's wearing a long dress. Very classy, but I'm getting fucking nervous now. If she looks this way there's a good chance she'll see me in the light. Who the hell is she talking to? Relief floods through me as I realise she's talking into her mobile, bending her head now down to the left to grip it whilst she does something with her hands. Lifting them to her face and she's got a cigarette in her mouth, but it looks a bit battered somehow. A spark and a flame and she's smoking - I hadn't realised she did. Talking again now, and a cloud of smoke drifts toward me as she exhales, laughing into the phone, that musical laugh I remember so well. I can't believe what my sense of smell is telling me, but she's smoking fucking ganja! She's doing a joint - Mrs Rich-Twat is getting high, and it suits me down to the ground. I listen to her conversation, but it's all giggles and agreement; no way of telling what the fuck the person on the other end is on about. She keeps calling them 'darling', but with this lot that could be anyone from a sister to the fucking bank manager. Means nothing, and I'm getting impatient. I freeze as I suddenly hear my name being mentioned: