Joyce. Part I of a story.

Joyce


I

"Her cock, her sweet cock," Bloom thought, muttering under his breath: his tanned fingers gently tapping the side of his bald temple as the coffee house Lucky Strike cigarette air settled about the two lovers like a fog slowly creeping in between: he seated across from the her.

"Are you day dreaming again Francis?" Joyce, in the chair opposite asked, half curious, half annoyed. Did you hear what I said, or do you need me to spell it out for you---again?"

He nodded. "I heard you. I just---" He trailed off: his fantasies once again taking flight.

Joyce sighed, sinking briefly into her Carmel Machiato. "I'll say it one more time," she thought."…-one more time and then…."

She drank deeply.

Bloom's mind flashed back to that first night. The Nectarine Ballroom where they first met. "Like Botticelli's Venus, there she was, " He floated on the vapors of coffee house smoke. "The dancing: Goldfraap's Oo Laa Lah: the constant thump, thump of the speakers and the crush of the crowd."

He remembered their sweat: her nipples poking through her rose patterned blouse, her apple-sized breasts dancing playfully underneath the increasingly sheer cotton: all the while her ruby red lips like pomegranate candy painted against the marshmallow white of her perfect smile, shone juicy sweet underneath the beating strobe light.

"Francis?"
Did he hear?
" Hello! Earth to Francis, come in Mr. Bloom."
He sat there, staring into a space he had apparently found more interesting than listening to her.

In her mind, she remembered something; the orgy with his friends, the other two frat boys, not long enough ago when her breasts first started to fill out. The College Football team had just won the biggest game of the year .It was Saturday night and she felt indestructible and beautiful: powerfully, sexy.

She wanted to make the scene that night. She didn't care that it was Greek Night at the Nectarine and not Gay Night. She told herself she was going to be honest and smart and tell before it was too late. She had convinced herself, she was under control, no one else. But most important: she had tits now, she felt hot and she wanted dick now and lots of it.

Her hips: her body as ripe as Concord Grapes that night, she wanted to be bad: Paris Hilton with a cock as fetching as Shakira's strut. Her sleek hot pussy on a shapely stick bulged at the crown of a pair of long lithe and supple legs snugly held in fishnet stockings: elegantly stacked on firm ankles, and muscles. Her naked red toes where black spiked heels clicked gleefully across the dance floor played a virtuoso Little Bo Peep in time to the beat of the House.

"You think I'm cute?" she teased as three boys approached her, freshly shaven, innocently blind, with much more cum than brains and very, very drunk. One of the boys was Francis. She never did remember to remember the names of the other two. But right then and there, she felt something stir inside, in a place that scared her a little bit. She shrugged it off then blurted out so everyone within earshot could hear: "I'm a T-Girl! fellas! Whacthya' think about that?"

Instantly, three mouths fell open and one of the bouncers, standing near the bar shot the group a cold glance. "Aw shit," he said to himself. "Joyce!?"

Waving to the bouncer at the bar, Joyce looked back at the boys whose mouths were gaping. "Look at these legs," she purred, smoothing her hands up and down her thighs. Then her eyes locked onto Francis' "…And these hips and everything else! Don't you guys want to see the whole picture?"

The blonde haired brush cut boy, Adam was the first to speak up: "Yeah, you are hot.. but…"

His friend, Johnny, a red head of freckles and braces and nerdy curiosity chirped in: "…you really have a--a--"

"A dick?" Adam finished.

"Yeah, baby," She smiled.".. wanna see?"



Back at the coffee shop, she shrugged off the memory of that first night she met Francis Bloom. "What a slut, I was back then," she thought to herself nursing her Machiato, enjoying the steam heat. She paused for a moment, then put her drink down.

"Francis," she finally said. "Baby, I want something different. I'm tired of being your own little fuck toy. Don't get me wrong, I love fucking you, but I want to make love with you: I want to share more than one way sex with you.."

Francis' eyes suddenly lost their glaze. "What?" he asked looking at her intently.

"Sweetheart, I want you to fuck me just like I fuck you. I want to make love with you, don't you understand? I want us to share love like a two way street baby, just like a two way street.."

"Joyce?" he stammered, "I thought we were a two way street already. I thought…" Francis trailed off. " We are a two way street…aren't---?"

"No we are not. I look at you and I---" She hesitated. The non returned phone calls from her parents, the years of lonely confusion, all the faces of the men and women she tried to sleep with: tried to--know, all the times she tried to know herself, quickly flashed in the wink of an almost tear behind her clouding eyes. "I don't know you," she said.
"Wait a minute," Francis started. "Of course you know me."
"No I don't. I'm just a freak to you. Something strange and exciting you met one night at some drunken orgy…"

Francis winced and picked up his reflection in the black heat of his coffee. As she talked, that night they met came alive again. "She's right," he thought. "We were drunk that night and she really was something, a dream girl with a dick as big as.."

He shook his head as the memories came alive in his mind's eye. That night, he had forgotten all about what he thought was or wasn't gay. And that night back at the loft: unreal: the way she danced to the center of the studio Adam, Johnny and me shared and started to strip.

" Fucking hot," he whispered under his breath into a cloud of coffee steam and fantasy.

And yet, Bloom admired Adam:

"Adam always had a set on him, more than Johnny or me. This hot chick who says she's got a dick, kicks off her heels on the carpet in the center of our loft and he just walks right in, puts in a CD and starts in on her: feeling her up, nibbling her ear. They just kind of melted into one another y'know, and then she rips off her blouse and her tits just kind of fall out: two identical heirloom tomatoes, soft and playful, swaying back and forth. Adam's lips and tongue found them as quick as her slender fingers found his cock, stiffening to attention in his blue Dockers."



Bloom sat there in his chair across from Joyce. If he had been paying attention, he would have seen her face. He would have seen the tightening of her jaw as she began to clench the porcelain handle of her cup. But he didn't see her: the glaze in his eyes washed up between the two lovers in a stale glaze of distance and smoke.

In his mind, all he saw was this beautiful chick pulling his two roommates by their now exposed cocks down to the carpet, her own erection now straining against her black thong, the only clothes she had on until Adam snatched them off and dove onto her dick until its size gagged him. Francis remembered everything from that night: how he saw Joyce completely naked, sucking on first Adam, then Johnny, how their size had not impressed him as much as the beauty of Joyce's hard dick as it gleamed from the spit and lust of his two friends.

Francis Bloom didn't even notice removing his own clothes and stroking his hard cock while he watched. All he remembered from that night was Joyce: on her knees Adam's cock perfectly gliding in out of her asshole: a ring of white foamy ass juice gathering around the rim. He didn't remember getting on his knees and crawling over to the pile of sweating and moaning bodies, nor did he recall sucking on her asshole while first Adam then Johnny fucked her puckered an puffy butthole.

The only thing Francis remembered was how good her dick felt in his mouth. How it slid down his throat and then, in what seemed like a turned page, deep into the hollows of his own ass while Adam came in her mouth and Johnny jacked his freckled red haired dick into a proud flowing geyser. Francis also remembered all the come: coming all over himself: feeling Joyce's cum bubbling into the condom she wore that slipped out of his ass; Johnny's and then Adam's cum shower bathing them all and staining the carpet sticky white. Bloom remembered everything.


But Francis had forgot something even more important: the woman he was dreaming about was sitting across from him: or at least she was. And she was a woman. Francis, however was busy with something else enitirely.

"I've had it with you Francis," she said flatly getting up from the table and gathering her purse. She paused for a moment and glared down into his still blank face. "Francis‼" she slammed her hands onto the table top.

"What?" he said as if suddenly remembering he had a voice. "I was listening to you."
"No Francis, you weren't. You were dreaming about me doing everything for you as usual." She said turning on her heels and heading for the door.

Francis attempted to get to his feet, to reach out and console her: to do anything to try and----

"Don't," she growled that lioness growl of hers he had seen before with gay bashers and nosy, snotty kids who made making fun of people a religion. That was the same look he saw when Adam, his roommate had called her a good for nothing drag queen sperm bank whore.

Francis knew the cold icy glare, the balled fists. She leaned in slowly and pointed her usually delicate finger at him. "When you are ready to grow up and appreciate and respect me, you call me buster!."

And then she was out the door, leaving him sitting there with a look of shock and surprise splattered across his face like the aftermath of a vaudevillian pie in the face in the gathering cold reality of a day, Francis had just then noticed, was cold enough to snow.

Part II
TBA