Mean Irish Red

[Eddie08]

Mean Irish Red
By Eddie08

See that "Tinseltown Examiner" over there?

That's me on the cover.

No, not the kooky redhead wearing the loose-fitting dress. Look down a little. Farther. Yeah, on the floor, right above the magazine's URL, there's the guy lying on his back ... you can see a bit of my shoulder, my ear ...

But not much else. Jill's feet are covering my face.

Ihhhhhh. I don't want to think about it. But, in case you're wondering, the only reason I have a copy is because a spiteful ex-girlfriend--a different one--mailed me the issue. She'd recognized the tattoo on my shoulder because it was an etching of her.

Now, I realize you're all probably saying: "Oh, that's not so bad." Society will understand that the magazine cover and inside photo spread are just some kind of publicity stunt to spark Miss Jill Cafferty's hot new career.

But I got to be honest with you: I'd been dreading the advent of that magazine for months, ever since I'd lost the court case to block its publication, knowing that it would be the final straw, my final public humiliation. I wasn't sure how I'd react when it finally arrived. Now I know.

I'm going to make a clean brake from this living hell: from playing her buffoon in nightclubs, and on TV ... and now in a cover shot for the world's most popular entertainment journal.

I have wayyyyyy too much pride for that.

I glanced at the cover one last time and cussed, then carried the magazine over to the trash. The bitch's hands were on her hips and she was laughing, the pink-toned soles of her pale, strangely swollen feet flattening my face, the image captured for all eternity--or as long as popular issues of such magazines remained in the public eye.

Wanna know what the final kicker was?

Look at her belly. Can you see it?

Of course you can--sorry, what a stupid question.

Jill Cafferty had been pregant for the shoot. Eight-month's pregnant.


***

Wait--let me step back. Lemme tell you how this whole goddamned mess started. I used to be a comedian--I was an up-and-comer, even playing The Four Faces in Atlantic City a couple times when I was on the circuit. Then, after years of slumming at mostly small, sparsely attended clubs, I got my big chance. At Funny Man's--no, it's not a gay bar--it's the biggest, hottest comedy club this side of the Mississippi. And I was there! The showcase event!! And I probably would have knocked them dead if it weren't for my past catching up to me.

Jill.

I used to tell jokes about the times when we'd dated, before and during our engagement, right up until, but not including, the day she'd dumped me at the altar--that part was too painful. I NEVER joked about that.

So, there I was, opening for Freddie Hayes who was supposed to be the next Chris Rock, and using the material that had been working for me: exaggerated accounts of my life sharing an apartment with Jill, how she had been a complete slob to live with, and how god-fucking-awful her feet smelled.

"And let me tell you something else," I said. "She used to come home from her ballet class--this was New York City, understand--everybody was something other than what they were getting paid to do."

The audience chuckled in appreciation of that.

"My fiance wanted to be a dancer on Broadway or at some ballet theatre or something--I don't know, I never paid attention to the bitch."

They laughed. And they laughed. Why? I can't be sure. Certainly my jokes, as best as I can remember them, weren't funny. Were they?

Maybe it was my appearance. I'm short, with a paunch, and my face droops a bit. Some critics were comparing me to Lou Costello ... minus Abbott, of course.

"And Limburger cheese ... I used to spread it under my nostrils to protect me from whenever she took her shoes off."

That's when it all had turned sour.

I paused, noticing a commotion in the audience. A woman sitting at one of the back tables had gotten up and started shouting something at me, and the rest of the dining spectators had turned around to see what was going on. Many of them later reported seeing a pretty redhead pushing through the crowd, rushing toward the stage.

My bowels started to loosen as I recognized her, that shock of orange-red hair, that stubborn, determined look she always had on her face. Those sparkling green eyes that had once so mesmerized me.

"You want to tell everyone my feet stink?" Jill roared, swinging her legs onto the stage. "I'll show you how much my feet stink."

"It's part of the act!" a man in the audience yelled. How unfortunate for me, for the pair of security guards to each side of the stage believed him. They didn't intervene as Jill scrambled to her feet and quickly closed the distance. I put my hands out to plead with her ... to protect myself, but before I could raise my guard high enough, Jill thrust her slender but sharp knuckles into my right eye--a left hook when I'd been expecting a right, my block missing its mark by a mile. That one punch had shut my right eye for nearly a week.

Before I could grab her, stop her from making fools out of both of us, Jill had brought her knee violently up into my groin.

I fell to my knees.

"Feet stink, huh?" Jill shouted, then she laughed heartily and removed her shoes. I heard a clack, then another, her dress sandals hitting the stage floor. The audience applauded, and a few men and women in the crowd shouted to my assailant, encouraging her.

Of all the humiliating things ... I was going to put an end to this right now. I started to sit up.

With a grunt, Jill cut me off, the top of her bony foot smacking the side of my skull. "I'll give you a real good whiff," she promised.

Jill kicked me again, in the ribs this time, the blow rolling me over, and when I opened my single working eye again, I was on my back looking up at the stagelights roasting my supine body.

The audience cheered, and I lifted my aching head to see what they were reacting to ... Oh, shit!

Jill held her bare foot just inches from my face ... she flexed her toes.

What did I smell?

Well, let's say cheese. The foulest smelling cheese ever curdled. The foulest smelling cheese known to man.

"And without further adieu," Jill had said, stepping on my face where she stood for a very long time.

I was conscious for most of it--she'd taken over my act, and every time I tried to interrupt, she pressed down harder, or inserted her sweaty, ripe-smelling foot into my mouth.

"Bob's penis is so small," she told the crowd, "that whenever we had sex, I entered him."

The crowd laughed, a few women cackled.

I. HAVE. HAD. IT.

My hands reached for her ankles and I tugged.

"No, you don't," she said kicking my hands back to the floor, one at a time.

"Yeah, I left Bob for a real man," Jill Cafferty continued. "A guy who doesn't feel like my own in-grown hair inside of me."

More laughs from the audience, and from Jill--at my expense.

I don't know what she told them next. I don't remember anything else. The stench of her feet had been too much, the pressure of her well-toned, 120-pound dancer's body too suffocating. It'd put me to sleep ...

[Potovalec]

nice story, please go on, I can't wait for the second part.

[John Blaze]

Very nice start. Stealing his moment to force public humiliation, and (if I understand where this is going) catapulting herself to the fame that avoided him! I'm definitely feeling this one!

[macrina]

Thank you, great start.

[Eddie08]

It was hard pill for me to swallow, you know--Jill, pregnant with another man's baby, doing that victory stance on my face, her clammy, swollen toes flexing over my eyes and nose, her sweat-slickened heels gliding over my lips as the photographer directed her into different positions and snapped enough pictures to fill two drives. After what she'd done to me at the nightclub a year earlier, I'd vowed to never let her put her hands--or feet--on me again. Yet, there we'd both been, in that New York photographer's studio a few months ago, Jill grinding her bare feet into my face, mashing it, just as she'd done that time when she'd insulted me repeatedly in front of the packed house at Funny Man's, a packed house that was supposed to be laughing at my jokes.

Now, she was a rising star, and I was nothing more than the butt of her jokes. After my unsuccessful attempt to get back into Funny Man's rotation of comedians, Jill had adopted me as her sidekick, with some of those appearances making it onto HBO. To this day, I've refused to watch any of those specials that HBO routinely aired, humiliating replays of when Jill had brought me on stage and made me play the fool, slapping my face to the delight of the audience, pouring drinks over my head, and once even shoving a quiche-pie into my face, the eggs and spinach filling my eyes.

I was getting compensated financially, sure, but I'd been getting phone calls and e-mail from friends and relatives telling me to pull myself together, to show some self-respect.

So earlier this afternoon I'd driven to the club and knocked on Mick's door. Mick was the Funny Man's owner, a great guy--or so I'd thought--who'd given me my big chance. Only that big chance had turned into a disgusting nightmare, one to which I'd been bound for the past year. Contract in hand, I ripped up my contract and told Mick I was through, that I'd be happy to go on alone, but I just couldn't be part of this lopsided arrangement anymore, the patsy in this comedic duo.

"Suit yourself," Mick said to me. "But don't expect me to work you back into the rotation anytime soon."

"Come on, Mick," I plead. "You can't expect me to take this shit from her forever. I've got my own career."

"Sorry," Mick said. "She's filling my club every week. If you won't do it, I'll find another guy who will."

I stormed out. Got in my car. Drove around for a while, cursing and smacking the steering wheel. It wasn't until I was stopped at a traffic light, a few blocks from home, that a delicious idea began to take shape. She'd sabotaged my act, catching me off-guard at a time when I was wholly focused on my performance.

Two could play at this game.

Now it was my turn.

I went online and Googled "Jill Cafferty." Clicking on some of the results, I soon found what I was looking for and jotted down some dates and times. Then, I tucked the scrap of paper bearing Jill's next local appearances into my wallet and picked up the telephone; dialed.

"Silverman's," a voice answered.

"Hi, yes, I'd like to reserve a seat for your show on July eighth."

"Just one?" the booking agent said.

"That's right, just me," I answered. "A seat in the back somewhere, please."

[Eddie08]

I arrived at Silverman's two minutes before Jill was scheduled to go on, and even though the joint wasn't yet filled to capacity, I could tell right away that there was a nervous energy in the air. Silverman's is an exclusively female comedian venue. Men can go and watch, buy drinks all they want, but any comedian with a penis was prohibited from performing. Funny, if the shoe were on the other foot, there'd be picketing outside, lawsuits, and then painful recompensations.

A waitress led me to my table, a bad seat from both a spectator's and stategist's perspective. The stage seemed a mile away--by the time I made my move and got down there ...

I sat back in my chair and glanced around, the lights flickered to encourage folks to take their seats, and from behind the tall red curtain the MC strolled out. It was hard to see from this distance, but I recognized him as Dave Glassman, the owner.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Silverman's supporters, it is my great pleasure to introduce our next performer. This beautiful young comedian got her start as a guerilla stand-up act, defining the spontaneity of a new trend in comedy. Some call it vaudeville, some call it madcap, some even call it cock-busting caberet, and what better home for it than here at Silverman's."

The audience applauded. I frowned and kept my hands on the table. The fake moustache tickled my face. Come on--Get on with it.

"I bring you one, mean, Irish redhead--Jill Cafferty!"

The place erupted, and Jill strode onstage, accepting a hug from Dave.

She turned to face her audience as Dave disappeared behind the curtain.

Her hair was on fire, redder than I'd ever seen it, and she'd powdered her face--or someone had done it for her. Dressed like some kind of lithe leprechaun, Jill wore an emerald-green tunic, dangling gold earings, a bright orange skirt, which conformed perfectly to her waist with the help of ridiculously fat black belt and gold buckle. She'd given birth, a girl, several months ago, but her body looked tight and toned. She was the fucking-est luckiest person I'd ever seen.

"How are we all doing tonight?" Jill hollered.

"Great!" a guy at the table in front of me shouted; many others murmured; a few, loud, young men whistled.

"Great that you're doing great," Jill said. "My name's Jill Cafferty, and I'm here to treat you to something really special tonight."

She walked to a different part of the stage, and through a gap in the tables, I saw her boots. No wonder she looked so tall down there. Her six-inch stiletto-heeled boots hugged her legs all the way up to her cream-colored thighs. The boots were the same emerald green as her top--not too different than the hue of her eyes, I recalled.

"I'm going to need a volunteer," Jill announced. "Are there any big strong men out there?"

A hand shot up from in front, just below the stage. A big Italian-looking guy.

More hands shot up, the guy in front of me, who'd earlier yelled down that he was doing "great" was also volunteering.

My eyes panned the audience. As far as I could tell, EVERY guy in the joint was volunteering to join Jill onstage.

I ground my teeth together. If I got close enough I'd belt her. Right across that aggravating face of hers. All I'd done for her when we'd been going out. Room and board, all the bills, her meals, the Audi she'd wanted and still drove today.

The night I'd first met her had been special--with one exception.

I'd gone to an amateur ballet with a guy friend of mine whose girlfriend was with the conservatory and was performing that night.

Gary'd told me that there were a lot of beautiful women in the conservatory and after the performance he'd introduce me to one of them--a wildcat originally from Ireland. A spunky little lass. Just my type, Gary had added.

Jill Cafferty and I had hit it off amazingly. I couldn't believe it myself--still couldn't to this day. I was this short, fat, insecure Jew from Long Island. She was this smoking redhead with a tight ass and dancer's limbs. But it was her eyes that had really blown me away.

I stared into them longingly that night on her couch, then got lost in them ... we'd both had a few scotches and her breath warmed my nose, my eyelids with hot, sweet vapor.

"My feet are killing me," she'd said before we could kiss, reaching down to remove the workboots she'd used to leave the theatre. She'd not changed clothes, but rather had replaced her ballet slippers with the boots, then thrown a coat over her tutu.

She placed her legs back on the couch and crossed one over the other, her heels falling on my lap. She was still in her white tutu and stockings.

"Can I have a foot rub?" Jill had whispered, and I caught a whiff of her earlier exertion, a pungent dampness rising from her tutu and hosiery. I realized that everything people, including Gary, had told me about dancers was true.

Particulary the part about them having the smelliest feet.

I shook my head with irritation. Enough of this brooding about the past, I told myself, and strained to see what was going on down below.

Center stage, Jill stood over the big Italian guy, Pete, her boot heel pressing down on the man's throat.

I lost it.

"You call this comedy?!" I shouted.

A few people turned around to glare at me, then as if afraid they might miss something extraordinary, their attention returned to Jill's act.

Jill adjusted her stance, placing her shiny emerald boot on volunteer Pete's face, the six-inch stiletto pushing at the man's mouth ... until finally his lips parted and Jill's spike entered his mouth. I saw the pathetic giant cough as Jill lowered her hips, further and further, bracing herself, until every single fucking centimeter of that stiletto was pressing toward the back of the guy's throat.

Time to make my move, I told myself.

Putting down my drink, I got up from the table and headed toward the stage.

[Eddie08]

My charge toward the stage was interrupted by that Hayes comedian I told you about earlier. He cut in front of me--he was rushing the stage, too. He got there first, scrambled up onto the stage and started tugging on Jill's elbow to let her victim go.

Jill spun with a grunt, then punched Hayes in the face; the black man hit the stage like a ton of bricks, face first.

Jill glanced down at me from the stage, it serving as a pedestal, highlighting her self-assurant superiority. She gestured to her upper lip, then pointed to my fake moustache and laughed.

I lost my nerve, hesitated, and she turned back toward Hayes, seized his unmoving body beneath the arms, then dragged him over toward the Italian-looking guy, I forget his name, Pete? She laid Hayes next to Pete, side by side, and stepped on my fellow guy/fellow comedian's throat. I rushed the stage and hurled myself onto it. Just then, Mr. Glassman, the owner and MC suddenly appeared, apologizing to me as he took me by the arms, and started pulling me off-stage. "I've got an offer I want to make you, Bobby," he whispered close. "Come in the back, have a drink with me. We'll talk about your contributions to my theatre."

I glanced at Jill, as the persistent Mr. Glassman yanked me farther behind the curtain until she was out of my sight. In that instant that our eyes had met, she'd given me this look. That "you're pathetic" look.

"You call this comedy, Dave?"

Glassman guided me to the corner curtain, and then opened the drape so I could see onstage.

"Well, that's two of them," Jill told the crowd.

I looked down at her feet. She was standing on Hayes and Italian-guy-Pete's throats, her emerald boots twinkling in the spotlight.

"And now for the third, will Mr. Da-ayyyyve Glassman please come on out!"

"You only have two legs!" Glassman yelled from where we stood backstage.

"That's all I need!" Jill fired back.

I watched with morbid curiosity as Dave Glassman, the club's owner, walked out onstage, as if his tail were between his legs.

"Come here," she said in a silly voice, and Glassman walked right up to her, his feined-frightened eyes beholding what had become of his top comedian Hayes and the nearly unconscious Pete from the crowd.

Jill seized Glassman by the scalp--"Well, I win the bet with our conquered Freddie Hayes," Jill told the crowd, gloating. "It's not a rug"--and she yanked Glassman down next to Hayes, slamming the club owner's head against the stage floor.

Jill slapped her palm down over the owner's face while her booted heels kept Hayes and Pete pinned behind her.

The audience stood up yelling, some sat in their seats stunned, but a good few were laughing. So--it was the spectacle of it, not the humor.

I bunched my fists and waited for her to come backstage.

She removed her foot from Pete-the-Italian-looking-whatever-the-guy's-name-is's throat.

"Tell the audience what I told you to say, new slave," Jill said, in a mockingly sweet voice.

Pete's head lulled to one side. He didn't answer.

Jill slapped her thighs and laughed with her audience. And it was HER audience. Certainly my buddy Hayes wasn't doing anything right now except allowing my ex-fiance, Jill from Hell, to stand on his throat.

"I gist that leaves the MC honors to mee-eh," Jill said, and it was then I realized that she'd been drinking or taking something before "going on." With that, plus her nerves and the exertion of performing, her brogue was starting to slip through, the alcohol suppressing her learned American-ness, unihibiting the lass in her.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let us give a big hend for Miss Jih-illllll Caf-feer-tee!" Jill shouted.

The audience clapped; some men whistled, and Jill waved to them. Then she spun and burst toward me, reaching back one last time to wave an evening's farewell to her patrons.

I stepped back and let go of the curtain, reached down and took a shoe off, then the other--I was going to make her smell my feet tonight--and tossed each shoe against the wall, just as Jill swiped the curtains aside and came backstage. She continued her jog toward the dressing rooms, but her head turned as she passed me. Instinctively, I pivoted toward her, and she spat.

I wasn't prepared for that!!! and tiny balls of her sputum sprayed my face. She'd been drinking beer. I could tell from the smell of her saliva. Good beer, German perhaps.

I growled and followed her toward her dressing room, with every intention of giving her the beating of her life.

Jill stopped suddenly. "GET. BACK!" she hissed, her upper body snapping forward as she swung her leg back, her booted heel arcing upward toward my--

When I came to, moments, minutes? later, I was on my back, blinking.

I could hear Jill's chuckle, smell her beer-spit drying on my face under the glare of the backstage lights.

I started to lift my head, felt something hard, sharp, yet somehow blunt thunk the side of my temple.

Fade to black.

But I'll be back.

To get that red-headed bitch.

[Eddie08]

I awoke some time later, my head throbbing like a drum; Dave Glassman was crouching next to me, tapping me gently on the cheek.

"Bob?-- Bob, you there, buddy?"

I shook my head to clear the cobwebs, started to get up. "Where is she? I'll- I'll--"

"You'll do no such thing," the club owner cut in. "She's in her dressing room, signing autographs, and there's a security guard outside her door."

"But did you see what that bitch just did--the crap she just pulled? And you!" I croaked. "You played a part to it."

"It's all part of the act," Glassman said. "Freddie was in on it, too. And you can get back in for a piece of the action, too, if you want ... if you'll just come to my office like I asked you before."

I scowled. "Help me up, Dan."

Glassman helped me to my feet, and, dazedly, I leaned on him as he escorted me back to his office.


***

All right, here's the deal. Glassman offered me five-grand an appearance for 12 shows over the next year--not so bad, considering the average comedian makes about 30K per year. Silverman's didn't hire male comedians, he said, so I was in essence nothing more than a well-paid prop. And I must never try to outwit, outdo, or retalliate in any way against Jill or any of the other female comedians at the club. It was all in the contract he'd placed on the desk before me.

"And one more thing," Glassman proposed. "I was saving this for last because it's the most enticing--you'll get an extra 10K to join Jill on 'Live With Shelly and Seamus.' The folks who watch that show love this kind of act--hell, Shelly's always wiping her ass with Seamus anyway--Jill and you would fit right in."

"Not interested," I said, rubbing my jaw. Jill must have hit me there at some point, either a blow I didn't remember or while I'd been down. I'd even found my fake moustache in the back of my throat. She must have shoved it down my throat while I'd been unconscious.

"Come on, Bobby," Glassman said in his promoter's voice. "The money's good and you'll be back in business."

I looked at him, then down at the contract. With my index finger, I rapped on the document. "You change it so that I get to bitch-slap her once every show and I'll sign on--otherwise, no dice!"

"I can't do that, Bobby-boy--everyone knows from all the sit-coms on TV, that it's hilarious when a woman hits a man, but never funny when a man hits a woman."

I sat there sulking for several moments, thinking about where my next source of income was going to come from, how I was going to pay the bills.

"Think about it, Bobby, will you?" Glassman said, and then showed me to the door. "Let me know tomorrow what you decide."

[Eddie08]

Later that night I was still so angry I couldn't sleep.

I toyed with the idea of paying Jill a surprise visit, of getting her to answer the door to her apartment just enough so that I could ram my shoulder into it and tear the security chain right off. I decided otherwise, not wanting to spend the night in jail when she called 911. She already had a restraining order against me. Against me?! Can you believe that shit? I'd never laid a finger on her, except that one time to massage her fucking feet, and she had the restraining order against me. She had the looks, the strength, and now the law on her side, not to mention the crowd.

It made me sick. I mean really sick. I was on my way to the toilet to puke my brains out, when the doorbell rang. I steadied myself, staggered into the apartment foyer and peered through the peephole.

Well, well, well, what do you know?

I opened the door.

"What do you want?" I said, barring the entrance to my home. "Come here to spit on me again?"

Jill cleared her throat. She'd put on an aqua blouse and pair of jeans, and from the way her usually messy shock of fiery hair fell about her shoulders, I could tell she'd recently showered and applied lipstick. There was Scotch on her breath now as well. "I needed to see you, Bob," she said. "May I come in?"

"No. What about?" I replied, standing my ground.

She ran her fingers through those fiery red curls, untangling them to reveal a delicate ear, an elegant neck.

"Our partnership," she said softly, and I felt my knees start to buckle as her sparkling green eyes locked onto mine.

I just couldn't help myself ...

I moved aside to let her in.

[Eddie08]

By 2 a.m.--after an hour of deep, passionate kissing ... of slowly undressing each other, garment by garment, sock by sock--Jill pushed me down onto the carpet of my small living room floor, hopped on top of me and began bouncing violently up and down on my tumescent shaft, her palms on my stomach, bright-red fingernails digging into my chest.

Well, this was a first. She'd never let me get this far while we'd dated; telling me every time sex came up that she was a devout Catholic, that she wanted to wait until we were married...

Then, she'd left me brokenhearted at the altar.

This bitterness somehow made me all the more hungry for her. That she'd used me as nothing more than a footstool on her way to the top, stood on my face with her ripe-smelling feet and insulted me in front of more than a hundred people, then gone and had a baby with another guy, flaunting the whole almost-serialized humiliation in the Tinseltown Examiner article, in those insufferable photos of her posing victoriously barefoot and pregnant on my contorted face.

I came, calling her name. "Oh, Jill--I still love you! I never stopped loving you!"

Well, there it was.... I'd said what I'd failed to consciously come to grips with. She'd hurt me so bad that I'd never let myself accept or articulate my true feelings. I'd buried them behind my anger and quest for vengeance.

I was in love with Jill Cafferty.

She remained silent as I pumped the last of my hot discharge into her soft, snug inner cavity. Then, without a milli-second of post-coital conversation, Jill separated herself from me, then padded over to where I'd left some of my clothes in a heap. She picked up my $100 shirt, squeezed it into a clump, and then used it to wipe herself, shoving the white silk up into that shocking, strawberry-colored tuft of fur between her legs, where some of our juices had converged.

The realization that this serendipitous coupling had been a mistake--a terrible mistake--was just beginning to dawn on me, when Jill flung the sex-soiled shirt into my face, then strode toward the bathroom.

[Eddie08]

My buddy Gary, who I told you about earlier ... he and I would to play cards on this little, round four-person poker table I kept standing in the guest bedroom. It was a fun room--I even stored bottles of booze atop the spare clothes drawer in there; bottles which Gary and I would routinely empty and then replace.

On her way back after peeing, Jill stuck her head into this same guestroom.

"Is that a playing card box?," she exclaimed. "And Irish whiskey?" She started jumping up and down excitedly in the hallway. She had helped herself to my bathrobe, but remained otherwise unclothed. Her bare feet were filthy from walking around my bachelor pad all night.

I sauntered over. "Yeah, my buddy Gary, you remember him? He and I play a lot of pool. I kick his ass all the time."

Jill slapped my arm. "Play me?"

I frowned. "Actually, I'm kind of tired..."

"Come on--plee-eeeze?" Jill fluttered her eyelids, lashes batting.


***

We were into our tenth game of five-card--a tall pile of my cash, my Bulova watch, and a painting I'd long ago purchased that Jill had always liked, already lost--when under the small table, Jill's foot found my knee. I glanced at her--she was checking out her hand, innocently moving a card here, another there.

Her foot climed to the top of my leg.

"Hit me with one," she said.

I slid the top card across the table, and as her fingers brushed mine to receive it, her toes simultaneously found my crotch.

"Jill, please don't," I said softly.

She ignored my polite request, moved some of my cash--now hers--toward the center of the table.

She'd whipped me something like eight out of the ten or eleven games--I can't remember exactly how many ... for we'd nearly finished the bottle of Jameson's Irish Whiskey, chased by a couple of beers each. By now I was getting irritable. I really just wanted to go to sleep but Jill had kept urging me to play on--To win my money back, she'd claimed.

"Your bid," she said and I felt her heel pressing up against my balls.

My cards were shit. I had a two of hearts, four of hearts, eight of spades, ten of diamonds, queen of clubs.

"I'll take three, and I dealt myself three from the top, then studied my draw.

It wasn't looking good.

"Jill, honey, you win. I'm gonna fold."

She sat back in her chair, her lower body sliding forward as the rest of her slunk, and she gave a little innocent cock of her head. "You. Can't. Fold," she said, emphasizing each word by strangling my tired cock between her toes.

"I don't have anything left to bet," I confessed.

Jill motioned to the table with her eyes; at my glass. "Drink," she ordered.

I picked up my drink and drained the last three fingers of the whiskey. It hit me instantly, as if I'd been gassed. Adding to this sensation, Jill started gliding her bare foot up my shaft, up and down, up and down, roughly. Gazing beneath the table's overhang, at my lap, I saw her dirty toes flexing over the head of my clothed penis, her red-painted nails the only part of her foot not caked with grime.

Jill cackled and said, "Place your bet."

I sighed. "I tole yeww--I've got nuffin leff, and I'm noth beth-en thuh Audi."

"Well, since I won't let you fold,"--Jill repositioned herself, her other foot finding my crotch ... with both feet she began really working me over good under the table-- "then you better let me think of something."

I stared across the table at her, her green eyes fixed on me as if I were a naughty child.

"Whuh?" I said with a gulp.

Jilll got up and walked out. My elbows found the table, and I put my weary head into my hands. I thought she might be getting ready to split. I had mixed feelings about that ... wait, no--her winnings were still on the table, including the painting leaning against the wall over there. She wasn't going anywhere--not yet, at least.

She returned several seconds later, carrying her purse. From it, she removed a sheath of folded papers and slapped them down on the table, followed by a pen. She sat back down at the poker table; leaned back.

"Whuh thuh fuck ith thith?" I slurred, simultaneously focusing on the makeshift bar behind where she sat. I needed another drink.

"It's the contract Dan Glassman offered you tonight." Jill scooted her chair forward, and a second later I felt her foot as it returned to my groin. Beneath the table, a wrestling match was under way; her foot against my cock, and after she promptly squashed my balls, she quickly pinned my suddenly alert penis against my belly.

"If I win, you're in," she said with an icy emerald stare.

I studied the first page, skipped to the second. "Why?" I said, suddenly sober. "Why do you need me?"

Her foot kept throttling me below, and I saw her frown and consider this for a considerable time. "OK," she said finally. "I'll tell you the truth--I might as well--I mean I owe you that much."

Her other foot rejoined the party on my lap.

"That night when I crushed Freddie Hayes and that big Italian dork," she began. Her hand came to her face and she squeezed her nose as if to relieve an itch. "Well, you see, the next day the reviews sucked. I mean, the critics were calling my act pornographic." She placed her hand down on the table and stared into my eyes again, as her filthy feet pulled on my erect shaft.

"I need you, Bob--you're my Lou Costello, my Elmer Fudd, my Sideshow Bob." And with that final, clever comparison, Jill brayed and blurted with laughter.

I studied her, trying to gauge her true intent, and that's when her expression suddenly turned serious.

"And besides," she said dryly, interrupting her statement to empty her own glass then slam it down on the table. "If you don't, I will never, ever, give you a night like this again."

I glanced at her, pleading with my eyes.

"EVER!" she spat--and I knew from that stubbornly crooked pout of hers that she truly meant it.

[Eddie08]

Um, not sure how I should highlight all that's happened ... Jill beat me--she had a straight flush--sprang from the table, laughed in my face, then opened my fingers and inserted the pen in my hand, rolled up the contract and smacked me across the cheek with it.

She flattened the contract back on the table, then torqued her waist and slapped my face ... with her palm this time.

"Sign," she said, stomping her heel on the floor.

With a sigh I slid the contract forward and signed it. I was drunk.

"Thank you," Jill said and walked out of the room. I heard her shuffling about and forced myself out of the chair to stumble after her.

"Jill, wait! Where urr you going?"

On my sofa, she crossed her legs, put on a sock. Staring smokingly at me, she said, "I got what I wanted. Now I'm leaving."

"For g-g-good?"

"Yes. From this moment forth our relationship is strictly professional," Jill stated matter-of-factly, pulling on the other sock.

I was about to stand up and start hollering, when somehow my inebriated self came up with a better plan. For the short-term, at least.

"You gotta stay to give me one more chance at winning every-fing back. Name your odds."

Jill glared at me for a moment, then squinted, her thumb came to her chin "miming" some kind of statuesque pose.

"A-hah, got it!" she exclaimed seconds later.

"What?" I said, the room spinning slightly.

She removed a sock and pulled her knee in and up so she could examine her sole. "Uh-huh," she said to herself, then yanked off her second sock. She studied this foot in the same fashion, made a face of exaggerated disgust.

She jumped to her feet, bounced on the cushion and extended her leg, suspending her foot just inches from my face. Amazingly she held it there. Sometimes I forgot she was a ballerina. Flexed her toes.

"See how filthy my feet are, Bob. That's because my feet were really really sweaty from those tight green boots and all the dirt from your disgusting apartment stuck to my heels, Bob ... Bob--what a stupid name," Jill scoffed. "If I win, you know what? You have to lick them clean, however long it takes."

[Eddie08]

Jill stared at me, expectantly. In a sloppy motion, she crossed her legs under the table, her heel whacking my knee. "Your bid," she said, though I didn't need her telling me that. I really wanted to win this hand, and if I could win I would get my gold watch and $800 in cash back.

My painting, and maybe some of the pride I had already swallowed.

"Hit me with one," I told her.

She dealt, but it wasn't from the deck. A stinging smack from her hand across my cheek and brow; her palm catching a little of my lips, too. My tongue probed outside my mouth. A drop of blood.

Jill laughed.

I turned and in sudden anger swung my fist toward Jill's face.

She ducked ... and wham-wham-wham ... Jill punched my ribs, my balls, my throat, and I didn't know where to place my hands to comfort the agonizing pain. I choked, then fell to my knees.

"My bid," she said and returned to her chair.

I was still on my back, in my own, toppled chair. A pain in my spine, too, I leaned forward and fell out of the chair, crawled across the carpet. "Jill, help me up," I tried.

To my surprise, she did help me up, and she put me back into my seat.

I took my newly dealt card, looked at it, tried not to give away my reaction.

Her foot smothered my crotch and I quivered and giggled involuntarily.

"Dealer is all set," Jill announced--she was good at that, I had to hand it to her. She was good at promoting herself, announcing herself publicly. "Final bids are in. If I win, Bob has to lick and swallow every single speck of dirt and shit and toe jam from my heels, soles and piggies, and if Bob wins--ha!--I give him back everything I took from him tonight, contract included.

"Like that will ever happen," Jill added in a whisper.

I laid my cards down on the table. It was a solid hand: I had a two and three of spades, four and five of hearts, and six of diamonds. A straight.

Jill squealed and laid her own cards down.

Fucking luckiest woman in the world, I tell you.

It's gonna sound like a cliche, but it's true.

Full house.

Everything dropped. My jaw, my tongue, my spirit, my hope, my pride. What pride? I was now contractually obligated to literally be dragged a SECOND TIME along the circuit as Jill Cafferty's human punch line.

Jill pointed her middle red fingernail down at her cards, then wagged it at me, then pointed straight down again, this time as if she meant under the table. To hell.

***

Her feet are absolutely disgusting. There's no way I'm doing this, I told myself and got up from the table, started walking out.

Jill hooked my arm and flung me ... I crashed on top of the poker table and it instantly collapsed under my weight. A brain-rattling collision with the ground.

Let me tell you something about Jill's fighting style. She'd never studied the martial arts, or so she says. To me, she fights like a barbarian woman in Brittania might have. Or if you can't picture that, like an Irish immigrant to America might have a century or more ago, in one of those street bouts, the wagers and the beer flowing.

I shook my head and started to get up, but before I could Jill had hopped onto my face, and as she stood there some kind of spark in my brain crackled, must be a concussion, I thought, her dirt-coated soles pushing on my face ...

I slipped out a gasp before my world went black.

[Eddie08]

I passed in and out of consciousness several times, departing each revival with only snapshot memories of what she'd done to me.

She'd stood on my face with her filthy stinking feet.

She'd facesat me while wearing my own bathrobe, and then again with the robe rolled up, so that her orange-red tuft of pubic hair was brushing my nose and lips, her crotch wiping sweat and eventually her hot orgasm all over my face, the latter accompanied by a series of hoots and oohs from her lips above.

I'm ashamed to admit that--despite what my mind thought of Jill at the moment--my penis acted exactly opposite and wrongly--it grew hard and upright.

Jill saw my erection and lifted her buns from my forehead, her tuft tickling my nose as it receded and she stood.

She stepped over my chest, turning. She squatted, but this time she pushed her face in close.

Jill cleared her throat and hocked.

"Don't," I cried, too dizzy to even lift my head.

She spat.

Her looghie splattered over my eyes, then crawled slowly into them.

She laughed, then launched herself with all her weight. Her bottom came down hard upon my chest. She stretched her legs forward, then jammed a still-filthy foot into my face.

Her sole glided over my face, catching the generous remainder of her looghie, and applying it all over my ... over my nose, my lips, my eyes, my eyelids, back over my nose where her stinking dirty toes then clamped my nose.

Through her toes, I could see her above me, adjusting her stance. Then, ballet-like, Jill brought her other foot in, then lowered it, down, down, and onto my lips.

The same foot slid away, then slapped me hard across the jaw.

"Open your fucking mouth!" Jill spat.

I did and Jill inserted her toes.

"I won the bet," she said lazily. "Suck my toes, suck my entire feet clean. Then, tomorrow you will show up at Silverman's, two o'clock, for rehearsal."

Jill giggled at this.

And I gagged ... as she shoved her entire foot into my mouth.

"Your face has my muddy footprints all over it," she added with a snort.

[Eddie08]

That's the end of Act One. Eddie08 rest now. Let him know what you think.

[jaym]

Eddie, you are without doubt one the most prolific authors, hands down! I have been immensely blown away by how well your writings conveys atmosphere, characterization, and mood. Seriously, I didn't think you could outdo yourself with your other stories. Personally, while you are obviously going to write your own conclusion, I simply can't resist voicing my opinion that this fine story should end with someone being slowly smothered beneath this fiery redhead's pungent feet. Seriously, she's beyond fantastic! Keep up your great work!

[Eddie08]

Thanks jaym. I don't think the next part or the ending will be too far from your expectations. I will try to "relive" more boot torture scenes for our boot lovers, as well.

[jaym]

Great to know, Eddie! I just wanted to convey my appreciation for your work while not coming across as "one of those guys" that says "this is how your story must end!" For some reason, while other female characters seem perfect for the part of facesitting or some other means of doing some poor loser in, I see this fiery red headed, Celtic warrioress, favoring the foot route. Take care and keep up your awesome work!

[Eddie08]

I awoke with a gasp, a spasm of sorts. Rolled onto my side, coughed. I felt sick. And there it went, out of me, my personal liquid lava carrying all of the dirt she'd made me swallow last night. I placed a hand down on the carpet, careful not to put it in the puddle of my puke, and took a step, stood, staggered.

I passed the clock.

Shit.

Two minutes before two. Two minutes before reheasal.

Supporting cast members, and that's all I was right now under Jill, could be fired for being late.

I ran to my bedroom, tore open a drawer, pulled on a fresh shirt and a pair of nice-enough jeans. Deciding I didn't time for personal hygiene. I grabbed my car keys, wallet, sunglasses and headed out, already late, with a thirty-minute drive ahead of me.

[Eddie08]

I sped and got there in twenty minutes, but lost time walking around the building, searching for a way in. Clubs like this were almost always locked up during the day, while conversely being receptive and alive at night. I was trying to enter one at 2:20 p.m. on a Friday, so I wasn't surprised the front door wasn't open. I tried an alley, where I found a door and where I heard some piano notes ringing out from inside. I pressed my ear to the door and listened. Voices inside, one of them possibly Jill's. I tried the handle, the lever sank and I entered Silverman's from the side.

I found myself in the club's small auditorium, with its sixty of so seats spread around tables, its stage below where I saw Jill pacing; Dave Glassman, the one at the piano, attempting unsuccessfully to recall a soundtrack number he once knew. "Everybody else is here, Jilly baby--Let's. Get. Started." And Glassman played a note on each his final three words.

I reached the stage. "Hi, sorry I'm late."

I climbed up and they all stared at me, each with their own strange expression. Glassman giving me an almost apologetic look. Freddie Hayes grinning. A fourth actor, a girl I didn't know. She looked as puzzled as I must have seemed.

And then there was Jill.

Jill's lips moved in a twisting motion, I saw her ball her fists ... I rushed and ducked behind Glassman and his piano.

"Ha!" Glassman coughed, doubling over on the piano stool.

At first I thought he was having a heart-attack.

"That's funny," Glassman choked out. "He walks in, she goes to slug him, and he hides behind an old man and his piano. OK, cease all hostilities for a second, Jilly baby, and let's all find a place to get comfortable." Glassman cleared his throat. "We're gonna discuss what our first show will be about."


***

"I'll start," Jill said loudly. She was still pacing. She wore tall, black riding boots, her blue jeans perfectly tucked in, a red blouse, mostly unbuttoned. A glimpse of pink bra as she turned to give her proposal.

"We have to hit them with a big show right from the get-go."

Her Irish brogue coming out again. I knew she'd been drinking. Stranger than that, or perhaps more disappointing as I got honest with myself, Jill was avoiding eye contact with me. I hoped she hadn't meant that thing she'd said last night about our relationship being strictly professional from now on.

"We have to provide not only laughs, but thrills, chills, and spills," Jill said, tripping over a few of the words.

Hayes folded his arms. "You ain't punching me again, girl."

Jill eyed him sternly, rolled up a sleeve. "Of course not, Freddie."

No one said anything, so Jill continued.

"I want to build a little mini-ring on stage and I want to box Bob in it."

Well, at least she was saying my name.

"You're drunk, Jill," I said, not liking her suggestion. Though I loved this abusive woman, there was no way I was going to stand in the ring with my arms down so she could slug me.

That was stupid. That was dangerous.

Jill strode toward me, moving slowly, those green eyes for once not fierce, but rather reflecting an aura of cunning.

She had her hair up in a tiara. She was mesmerizing, but I had to watch it. I HONESTLY didn't like it when she hit me. I wanted her love. Not her wrath all the time.

She stopped, her face just inches from mine. I thought she was going to spit on me again, and then she turned and although my eyes didn't follow her, I heard the clack of her boots as she walked away.

"Let me see," Jill thought aloud, and her hand came to her chin. Catching my attention were her long red fingernails. I stared.

She shifted her head, caught me looking, and gave a quick all-knowing smile. "Bob, or should I call him Chump, will wear a pair of boxer shorts, preferrably a dirty-manly color. He will wear sneakers and socks. He will not be permitted a shirt, headgear, mouthguard, or cup.

"Bob's gloves will be blue--mine will be white." She smiled dreamily. "I'll wear emerald-green trunks ... Dave Glassman, get me a pair ... and a matching green bikini top. I won't be wearing anything on my feet, except a fresh pedicure." Jill spun toward me. "And if you so much as step on my tiniest toenail, so help me, Bob, I'll make the beating I gave you last night seem like a pleasant memory."

Before I could object, Glassman went to her, held her hands sweetly. "Jilly baby, I'll make it so, but what will be funny about this act?"

She was ready. She glared at me as she shouted back at Glassman, "Absolutely nothing."

[Eddie08]

The last hours before our fight were a lot like those final hours before our wedding--the wedding that had never been. We weren't allowed to see each other--the stagehands had constructed this big divider between one area backstage and the other. Somewhere on the other side of that thin panel Jill was dressing or getting a pre-fight massage.

Glassman stuck his head into my makeshift dressing room. "Just another minute, Bobby." He looked at me. "You ready?"

I nodded.

"You put on a good show," Glassman continued, "and I swear I'll do what I can to get your career going again."

I just stared at him.

"OK, I'm going onstage to announce you."

Minutes later, after some corny preamble, Glassman's voice rang out loudly. "In the blue corner, and in the black trunks, at five-foot-six, weighing in at one-hundred-and-eighty pounds, here is Bobbbb--Goldddd-mannnn!"

I pushed the curtain aside and trotted toward the ring, batting my gloves together. I was barechested, with no protection for my head or groin. That was part of the act. The crowd was booing.

"And in the red corner, wearing the emerald trunks, at five-foot-eight and a LEAN one-hundred-and-twenty-two pounds, here is Jilllll the red-headed ruffian Caf-ferrr-teeee!"

The crowd roared, women cheering and screaming, men whistling and shouting "I love you, Jill!" It was clear what the audience's true colors were: red; red and emerald.

With little fanfare, Jill emerged from behind the curtain and strode toward the ring. She wore a long, emerald robe, but not for long, as she quickly tossed it off, revealing her fighting ensemble.

I hadn't seen her since rehearsal two days ago, when she and a guy friend had brought a keg and beer funnel along, and in trying to swallow her fourth, 12-ounce shot after rehearsal was over, she'd started coughing. Her mouth overflowing with foam, she'd turned quickly to choke out several ounces right into my face and all over my chest. I thought of this and how I'd done nothing about it and slammed my gloves together again.

But when I saw what she was wearing, my jaw dropped.

***

Remember what Gary said, I tried. She's the source of all your problems. Everything went downhill after you met her. Gary had also told me how terribly sorry he was for having introduced us. He said it was the biggest mistake he'd ever made and he hoped I could one day forgive him. But for now, he told me the best thing I could do was to stand up to her. By Gary's reasoning, just one punch to Jill's thin body and she'd be crying like a little baby girl.

I glanced at her as the referee who Glassman had hired explained the rules. Jill had pulled her hair back into a ponytail and her green eyes were set on me with the promise of mischief and mayhem. A bright-emerald bikini top covered her small, but lovely breasts--and beneath her tight, porcelain belly with its freckled skin glistening in the spotlight was what could best be described as a pair of sumo wrestler shorts, emerald green as well.

When we touched gloves, I saw that the white gloves she'd requested of Dave Goldman featured green shamrocks on the hitting sections of each, and as she turned to walk back to her corner to await the bell, I saw that her sumo-ish, diaper-like shorts were all-too-scanty in the rear ... her white, freckled buns completely exposed, as nothing more than a tiny green string covered her crack, climbing up into it, in fact, as she walked.

[Eddie08]

The bell rang and I started after her. I was going to chase her down, pummel her. ... Get that fucking, red-headed monkey off my back.

"Wait!" the ref shouted. "Miss Cafferty, do you need help with your shoes?"

I looked down at her feet, then stared in disgust. She was wearing strappy sandles, bright green--on any other woman, I might have been awestruck by such footwear. But on her...

"Yes, please," Jill said with a feigned pout. "I can't get them off with these big, bulky gloves on." She stood on her toes and spun on the canvas, showing off her freckled buns, before completing her turn.

The ref went to her, knelt down, and began unstrapping her shoes.

"Hurry up!" I hollered and pounded my gloves together.

He slid off her first shoe and placed it down on the mat, then started working on the second. The fucking straps climbed all the way up her calf, nearly to her knee, and after undoing the buckle, the ref had to unwrap the various straps from her leg.

"OK, you're all set," the ref said finally and returned to me at center ring.

"Thank you," Jill said, then picked up her shoes and padded barefoot across the ring. She stopped just inches from me and smiled.

I had a clear shot. The bell had already rung. I was within my rights ...

Whip-like, Jill swung her sandals, the sharp heel of one of them catching my left eye, the other my lip, the double-spiked blow sending me stumbling back into the ropes.

The standing-room-only crowd roared with excitement, and out of my right eye I could see the camera flashes going off in the audience.

Recovering, I tried to locate her, but my vision was still poor, my lip spilling blood, distracting me ... She was coming fast, a shuffle step. I noticed her fists beneath those ridiculous, shamrock-faced gloves--both of her hands held high in a defensive gesture. So, I cocked my fist back and aimed for that slippery belly of hers ... I realized, too late, that she'd been coming in with a kick.

The blade of Jill's foot whacked me solidly across the nose--and I heard a crunching sound, felt my nose shatter. My teeth clacked together and I tottered like an idiot, more flashes going off in the crowd.

Using the palm of her gloved hand, Jill cupped me behind the neck and pulled me away from the ropes.

"Out here where everyone can see," she said.

My arms found her waist. Enough of this shit, I said, and I began to lift her so I might toss her on her head.

I saw her toes start to leave the ground, those stinking red-painted, sweaty, putrid toes. She'd gotten a pedicure recently, just as promised. She was going to need a doctor when I got through with her.

Jill squirmed in my arms, then turned quickly in an arcing motion, her elbow connecting with my temple. I fell and damn it if she wasn't the luckiest woman alive--Jill fell right on top of me, using my chest to absorb the impact.

***

The crowd was screaming, more flashes ... where was I?

I moved my head a little, then tried to lift my arm but couldn't. The stagelights were directly overhead, then they weren't as Jill appeared above me, staring down at me with a triumphant grin.

Fuck this!

I rolled and lunged to my feet, nearly colliding with the referee who'd been getting into position to count me out.

I turned toward Jill, growled.

Her shamrock fist found my mouth and I grunted in pain, the blow loosening a few of my front teeth.

Furious and desperate, I swung at that obnoxious red head of hers, but she wheeled ... out of the way ... and her ponytail whipped me across the cheek, a further humiliation before her bare foot found my jaw and snapped my head back.

My world went black before my head slammed down to the canvas.

[smother sitter]

Man, I hope you Act two soon. I just finish catching up to the story, and I realy like it. It not just the fooot fetish content, it the characters that realy make me want to read more. Both Bob and Jill sound like real characters. Anyway I hope this encourage you, Eddie08

[Eddie08]

I awoke to these strange, muffled sounds--a sucking force exerting itself upon my face. I caught glimpses of dark then white, dark then white. When my vision finally cleared, I saw that Jill was slamming her g-stringed, freckled ass up and down on my face, and the audience was loving it!

I tried moving a few fingers and felt the boxing glove still on my hand; on my other hand, too. Worse, each time I wiggled a finger or toe, my neck hurt.

But I could see now, and my hearing was coming back, the ringing in my ears receding. My keener senses as well.

Jill sat--placing her damp, green thong vertically over my nose--then pressed down with all her weight. She squirmed, intentionally smothering my face with her round, perspiring buns ... purposely wiping her ass sweat over both sides of my face as the crack of her ass slipped farther down over my nose.

I lifted my heavy hands, but before I could touch her, she seized my wrists and pushed them back down to the canvas.

"Don't you EVER touch me!" she croaked--then, more softly, added, "And I better not get one drop of your bloody nose up my asshole because you're going to be licking it up if you do."

"So, where were we?" I heard Jill tell the audience, her sweaty, stinking ass on my face.

I could breathe, but I didn't want to.

"Oh, one time when I first toured with Bob, there was this absolutely gorgeous dancer in the show who said she wanted to meet him. Hear that, Bob? You remember Gemma, don't you?"

I did remember her. I had so wanted Gemma from Milan, but had never asked her out.

"I told her not to waste her time, Bob," Jill simultaneously revealed to me and the crowd. "I told her that you were gay."

"Awww," some of the more sympathetic audience members moaned.

"Ain't I stinker?" Jill said with a snort, then wiggled her butt some more over my face.

[Eddie08]

Jill continued to roast me in front of the standing-room-only crowd while her sweaty ass kept my own tongue at bay.

"Oh," she said with a snort. "I whipped Bob at something like fifteen straight games of poker a couple of weeks ago. After I took all of his money--"

Jill farted.

Loudly, so the stage microphone picked it up and amplified it for everyone in the house.

I squirmed and bucked, but she held me down, her hands covering my gloved wrists, her butt pinning my face to the canvas. It was an unpleasant smell, kind of like catfood. I'm not into farts--you'd have to be sick--"

"After I took all his money," Jill continued, the audience laughter dying down, "I bet him that if won another hand that he'd have to play the bitch in my show." She paused, to let the audience get her meaning, before adding, "And here he is."

They clapped, and I tried again to buck her off, but Jill Cafferty's ass wasn't leaving my face.

She cleared her throat. "The thing I haven't told him yet ... and I suppose I should ... is that that contract he signed promising to be in my show--well, I kind of amended it a little without him knowing."

"Mmm-uhh!" I protested, and bucked again.

Jill held firm.

"I added this little addendum that says Bobby-Wobbie agrees all of his earnings from the show go to me."

Over the curvature of her rump, I saw Jill tilt her head back and laugh, and she had me so thoroughly pinned, so thoroughly snuffed out, that there was no where for my shame, anger, frustration, and primal fight-or-flight man hormones to go.

Except one place.

How embarrassing.

I was pitching a tent.

"Eww!" Jill cried, sliding her ass off of my face. Rising to her feet, she stepped onto my chest, then spun quickly to face me. Leaning down, she slapped me hard across the face. Her gloves were off, both literally and figuratively.

She sat back down, this time on my chest, and made a pair of fists which she placed her hips. I was too focused on the strong, pungent odor coming from her puffy, frilly sumo diaper, some of the silky emerald fabric scrunching against my chin and lips, to notice her fist cock back--

Jill socked me in the face. The blow shook me, causing my body to spasm, my head to throb, my left eye to shut.

She followed with a right hand, and I heard the audience groan in a mixture of shock and horror. Damn, she had hard little knuckles.

Where the fuck was Glassman to stop all of this?

Where was Gary? Why hadn't he hopped on stage to pull her off?

Now I couldn't open my right eye, either.

"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" Jill belted out, and though I could no longer see, I could feel her breath on my beaten face. My severely beaten face and I realized in my half-conscious agony that I hadn't laid a glove on her at all. Not tonight. Not ever.

Pttt!

I felt something slimy on my nose and mouth.

Pttt!

I heard Jill spit again--more of her sputum sticking to my face, this time over one of my bludgeoned eyes.

"Oh, you want some of me?!" I heard her shout.

Then, suddenly she was gone!

She'd leapt off of me, and I managed to move my head just enough to see her charge a man who'd rushed into the ring.

Gary!

To my rescue.

No!

Jill's roundhouse kick took Gary completely by surprise, the top of her foot catching him just above his left ear.

Gary collapsed to the canvas, and I groaned in despair, causing myself to gag on the increasing amount of blood that was pooling inside my mouth.

I blinked out for a second or two, and when my swollen eyes fluttered open again, Gary's head was resting next to mine. Before I could try to rouse him to action, Jill planted her foot on my friend's face, and gave a little hop step that brought a grunt from the valiant but now helpless man.

"YOU. BITCH!" I managed.

Jill said nothing. Instead, she let her foot do the talking as she pressed her dirty, sweaty sole down on my beaten face. Through her clenched toes, I saw her hands go to her hips and she posed comfortably as another barrage of camera flashes captured the moment.

[Eddie08]

I didn't show up for rehearsal Monday. I stayed home, nursing my wounds. A doctor had told me I probably had a herniated disk in my neck--I told him I wasn't exactly sure how it had happened, which actually wasn't a lie: I really didn't know at which point during my beating it had happened.

When my doorbell rang a half-hour after rehearsal was supposed to have ended, I answered the door carefully, concerned that it might someone from the act--or Jill herself--coming to chew me out or beat me for missing practice.

No--it was just Gary. He had a welt above his ear where Jill had kicked him, and another under his left eye where she must have hit him again.

"I thought about this all week," Gary started. "Where does she live? You and I are going over there to teach the c--t a lesson!"

He really said the c-word.

"Look, Gary--I can't go," I said glumly. "The restraining order still applies except during professional functions--Jill waived that part of the restraint."

Gary slammed his fist down on my kitchen counter, nearly spilling the beer I'd brought him. "Then, I'm going alone!"

I looked at him, grimaced. "She'll kill you."

At this, Gary roared. "You think so?! Well, I'm going over there right now to tie her up and burn the skin off those stinking feet of hers! How dare she put those disgust--" his voice trailed off, and I saw him put his head down and start to sob.

My friend wasn't used to having a skinny redheaded woman beat him to the ground and then stand barefoot on his face. I could see how the act and the public embarrassment had hurt him far more deeply than the bumps and bruises that Jill had inflicted on his face and body.

"Gary, I know it was a really bad break, but you were brave, man. You tried to save me."

"SAVE IT!" he croaked, then put his head back down in his hands and sobbed some more.

"You'll forget about this in a couple of weeks," I tried.

Gary whipped his head in my direction, his beated face drenched in tears and snot. "No. I. Won.t! Not ever!"

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

He inhaled, then breathed out. "You know."

"I do, and I understand how you feel, but I can't join you."

"Bob," Gary said sharply, forcing me to stop talking. "She farted on your face."

She had. And I wouldn't ever forget that. It was the ultimate humiliation ... a woman I lusted after, a woman who conversely treated me like dirt, a woman with whom I was estranged, had beaten me up in front of a crowd of almost a hundred, most of them crowding the stage for the final part, as Jill Cafferty had knocked me unconscious in the ring, sat on my face with her virtually bare ass and farted! Then, she'd kicked my friend in the head, stepped on both of our faces, trampled us briefly--we'd both found out later--and then left us there unconscious to the applause of the invigorated, mostly female crowd.

"OK," I heard myself say. "We'll swing by her place. If she's alone and I think we can catch her off-guard we'll tie the bitch up and teach her a lesson."

Gary jumped to his feet. His tears had been real, but they were now just the liquid residue of a forgotten state. My friend was alive again. Bent on revenge.

I seized his arm, though he was significantly bigger than me.

"You follow my lead, Gary," I said sternly. "We abort if I say so, and you don't touch her unless I tell you to."

For several seconds Gary stared at me--coldly. Finally, he said, "You better be ready to kick that bitch right in the crotch, Bob. Because if you don't, I'm flying right past you to get the first, second and third shot in."

[Eddie08]

Jill lived at the end of a cul-de-sac, a single-story home and the only house within a quarter of a mile. Gary and I also had the advantage of dense tree cover and hedges.

And Jill wasn't yet enough of a star to have her own security guards or even an electric fence.

She was allergic to dogs. She'd made me get rid of mine. It made her sneeze. Gary and I weren't expecting to be greeted by a Rottweiler.

We parked, scrambled up to the front door, and I tried the knob. I was smart enough to wear gloves. To my surprise, the door opened. Gary and I slipped inside.

The lights were all on, there was a glass of wine on the kitchen counter, a bottle of green nail polish. I glanced down the hallway, doors open, all except the one at the very end.

I stole toward the counter. On it was a note.

"Hi guys ... Glad you finally grew the nads to come and see me. I'm in the house somewhere. Come and get me. If I see a weapon of any kind, you blow your chance. I call the cops!" It was signed: "Fuck you, Jill. ... p.s. Bob, don't forget we're due on Seamus and Kelly or whatever it's called in two weeks. Don't miss practice again or I'll shove my foot so far up your ass you'll be sucking my toes until Christmas."

With a hand signal I held Gary where he was, then started down the hallway. Everything I knew about Jill told me she was behind the closed door at the end of the short corridor. I tried to move quietly, but by the time I thought of going back to remove my sneakers I was only a few feet away from the shut room.

Grasping the handle, I turned to take one last look at Gary, then opened the door.

A blur of green surrounded by white shot toward my face. Instinctively I stumbled back trying to avoid it, and that gave me an extra millisecond to recognize the shamrock of Jill's boxing glove ... attached to some sort of prankster's mechanical arm.

"Of all the things," I said drunkenly, then collapsed to the floor.

***

[Eddie08]

How much time passed I cannot say. I awoke to blurred images of a third person in the apartment who I suspect was Jill. She was headscissoring Gary.

The reason I saw "suspect" it was Jill is because Gary's assailant wore a baggy, white clown costume, lined with emerald green seams, and a bright-orange-raggedy-strawberry-patch-girl-doll-whatever-she's-called wig. Under all the make-up and circus costume, I couldn't tell for certain it was Jill.

And was it really a wig?

As my vision slowly cleared, my hearing as well, I heard Gary grunt as the clown tightened his/her? leglock on Gary's throat.

I crawled toward them. Got a better look. It was Jill's real hair, colored to look fake, colored and styled like the heat-meister-or-whatever-his-name-is's hair.

She wore thick white makeup on her face, a red plastic nose, her lips painted maraschino cherry red.

She'd painted her face with a happy expression, not a sinister one, which made her next move seem even that much more ironic. Still clutching Gary between her thighs, Jill reached down with her bare hand, her long nails painted emerald green, and starting at Gary's chin, she dug her green claws into the captive man's face ... then dragged.

I blinked, then focused once more in horror at my friend's predicament.

Jill had dug grooves into Gary's face which were now filling with blood. The gouges ran all the way up to his hairline.

Then, she came up with a ridiculously large toy pistol, and pointed it at my head.

"What's that?" I mumbled and crawled some more, my hand stretching out to grab Jill by her giant, fire-engine red shoe.

Jill fired.

Something splashed across my face; a warm liquid flooding ... stinging my eyes. I shook, gasping, and to capture a breath I rolled on to my back. What?

"It's a piss projector," Jill said, answering my silent wondering. "But I added a little pepper spray to the formula." I heard her snort, then the clack of the size 30 clown shoes. She reached me in two steps, stopped to squeeze and rub her nose and giggle some more, then stepped onto my chest, the shoes so long that they covered nearly my entire chest.

"My feet smell, huh?" Jill said. "Watch what I do to him now, folks."

Huh? What was that about?

Was her eternal vendetta against me all because of the jokes I'd once told early in my once-promising career? That period now seemed so long ago.

And who was she calling 'folks'?

Jill leapt.

And came down on my sternum.

Uhh.

Again.

Knocked the wind out--

Again.

A fourth time, a different angle ... on my face.

It felt like someone had dropped a pallet-ful of tomato cans ten stories and onto my face.

As I struggled to breathe, I saw her hop up onto one of the kitchen barstools and start to remove the giant jokes swallowing her feet and ankles.

She couldn't have looked less attractive.

"You ... you lost it," I stuttered. "Yy-yur ass is fat."

"That's stuffing in my pants, stupid," she said and slid the bright-red banana boat from her foot, flexed her toes. "Oh, my god, for all of you folks watching, my feet are so-ohhhh sweaty from these clown shoes."

She removed the other, threw it at me. It bounced off my chest.

Then she stepped down from the stool, right onto Gary's chest. He let out an involuntary oomph.

I swiped the clown shoe off my chest, and sat up. Finally, I'd caught my breath. I slid forward, feinted as if I might try to escape, then lunged, pawing for Jill's ankle--

She shuffled away, then hopped back, onto my hands.

I tried to rip my hands back, and almost pulled free, getting so that Jill's toes pinned my fingertips only ... but she readjusted her stance and resumed squashing my knuckles, my wrists. Her toenails were freshly painted, freshly dried. Sparkly emerald green.

Kneeling, grimacing, I stared up at her painted face, that ridiculous hair, like a bright-red cartoon flame. "You. Fucking. Bitch!" I hissed.

"Careful, Bob," Jill said. "We're on the air."

"What?"

And she tossed her smiley-faced demon clown head back in delight and laughed.

[mephistofele2]

wow.....that's a masterpiece....i really love it...especially the fart part! :)

[Eddie08]

The doorbell rang. I was almost shocked when Jill went to answer it. Almost because I assumed she might try to kill both Gary and me in an act of self-defense, me violating my probation to stay the fuck away from her when we weren't performing.

Jill opened the door and tilting my head I saw Dave Glassman enter, shades on, photographers in tow.

"Over here," Jill said, waving them inside. "Get some great shots. Give me baby Eileen."

Glassman handed 4-month-old Eileen over to her mother.

Jill smiled as she lifted her daughter. "Want to go for a ride. Weeeeeeeh!" and Jill spun, her heel swatting my face.

"Wasn't that fun?"

I saw the red light of one of the photographer's cameras, its handler pressing close, the camera watching Jill's little maternal dance above me. Then with a step and a squeal for her child, Jill was standing over me.

She stepped onto my chest, still wearing that ridiculous clown suit, that hideous make-up and hairstyle.

She pushed her toes onto my chin. In rebellion, I started to stand, but Jill braced Eileen in one arm, squatted, and then slapped my face with her free hand. Then, hoisting Eileen high into the air, Jill clamped her thighs around my neck and tightened her hold as she cradled Eileen in two arms once more.

Uhh.

Jill cranked it up, her lower body torquing while her upper body remained calm, motherly.

"Ahh, is this going to be great publicity shot just before "Live with Whoever and Whoever," or what?" Glassman said. "That's beautiful, Jill honey, now what's next?"

Jill released her hold, and I collapsed to the floor and painfully twisted onto my side. Jill beamed for Glassman and the cameras, batting her eyelashes. "Would you say I'm a milf?"

Glassman scratched his head. "What? ... Jilly baby, what are you talking about?"

"Yes, I'd say you are definitely a milf," one of the burly cameramen said.

"Well, now that I'm mother and no longer a pregnant woman, I think it would be cute if I stood on Bob's face and held Eileen up to--" with both feet Jill stepped onto my face, her sweat-drenched soles consuming my face, before finishing her sentence-- "add more Cafferty team weight to squashing Bob."

She chuckled.

God, how awful her feet smelled.

Jill wiggled her toes, showing off that blasted green nail polish.

"This whole thing must seem kind of familiar, Bob, huh?" she posed, as she plucked my ear up between her toes and lifted my head off the floor, only to slam it back down again.

I saw stars and flattened out to rest. Just another second, just another second, and I'd get up and tell Glassman I quit, tell Jill to go fuck--

Jill swiped her sole over my face. Her other foot was placed on my throat, her toes crushing my windpipe. She wiped her foot over my face again, making sure her big-red-clown-shoe-tainted sweat penetrated my pores, my nostrils ... her hips rocking, her heel gliding in the air just above my eyes.

I saw a couple of flashes in my peripheral vision. Cameras. This sucked, but at least with them all here, she wouldn't try to kill me.

"All right--that's enough!" Jill hollered. "Visiting hours are over! Take Gerry or Gary or whatever pissant's name is and get him out of here. Tell him if he ever comes near my house again, I'll drown him in my toilet."

I could hear two of Glassman's stagehands helping Gary up, then leading him out.

Jill remained standing on my face. She flexed her toes and the odor seeped into my nostrils. "Dave, uh Mr. Goldman, can you take Eileen for a second?"

Glassman relieved Jill of her baby, and immediately Jill adjusted her stance, to a more challenging stance, so her slimy heels were perched upon my brows, her arches kissing my nose, her toes tapping on my lips.

"Feet smell, huh?"

[Eddie08]

From somewhere down the hall, I heard baby Eileen crying.

Good, I thought. Maybe Glassman couldn't handle the baby. Maybe Jill would have to get off of me to see to her child. And when she did, I'd slip out.

"Oh," Jill moaned sweetly. "Is little Eileen hungry?" Spying up through her toes, I saw her unbuttoning her shirt. She tossed it aside and then reaching behind her back and unhooked her bra.

Her small, milky-white breasts were erect, the pink nipples obscenely swollen.

Baby Eileen let out another bloodcurdling cry for her mother.

Jill stepped back, her feet leaving my face, and she placed her heels on my chest, her toes against my throat. I coughed, and then felt something warm splash onto my face. There was too much of it--whatever it was--for it to be spit. I glanced up, past the ridiculous, rubberband-waist clown pants, past her tight, bare belly glistening with perspiration, up to her bosom. Her nipples were leaking...

Eileen wailed again.

And more of Jill's warm milk spilled from her tits, splattering over the top of her feet, over my chest.

I lifted my arm, seized her ankle. "Get off me, b--"

Another squirt from above, then a cascading from both nipples, Jill's fatty milk spewing down into my eyes, my nostrils, flooding my mouth.

"Oops ... sorry," Jill said looking down at the mess she'd made on my face. "Nature called and I just couldn't help it." Then, she blurted out laughing.

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha--"

I blinked, clearing enough of her milk from my eyes to witness those dripping bare breasts, her wide-open mouth as she guffawed like an obnoxiously noisy clown, those pouting lips coated in sloppy clown lipstick, those perfect teeth, that soft tongue protruding slightly from her mouth.

"Hey, Dave?!" Jill shouted down the hall.

"What?" Glassman yelled back. "I could use a hand in here, you know? Eileen's got a stinkie."

"Ooh," Jill said, and placed her foot on my chin. "Nahh, I better not." She cleared her throat and continued her long-distance conversation with Glassman. "Umm, can you take care of it, Dave? I'm kind of busy here. And please warm up some formula and give it to her--I'm kind of all tapped out here."

"All right," Glassman's voice echoed down the hallway. "But this is the last time, I swear."

"Yeah, right," Jill whispered above me. "That's what you said the last time." She stared down at me with a smug look. "Well, Bob, you're going to have to clean up this spill," she said, then wiped her milky sole over my face.

Deep inside my chest, I felt something collapse, and then slowly evaporate--not from nausea or internal injury but rather from some sort of spiritual death, as if Jill's lactation had doused a final flame of hope inside my core.

Exhausted and beaten, I closed my eyes and waited for Jill to finish.

[Eddie08]

I awoke some time later, only to find my hands cuffed behind my back, my ankles bound tightly with thick cord.

I lifted my head and looked around. Eileen had stopped crying and I got the sense that she and Glassman were either napping or they'd left the house altogether. I could see down the hallway, and could also make out some of Jill's kitchen and dining room, but not much else. Jill had tied me to one of the tall kitchen stools--the counter and all of her kitchen appliances were directly behind me.

I laid back and tried to think of a way out.

"Hey," Jill's voice came suddenly. I saw her sole appear above my face, her toes wiggling, and little white flecks floated down into my eyes, and onto my nose and mouth.

I squirmed, tugging on my restraints, yanking, kicking, cursing. No use--she'd bound me good.

"You're finally awake," Jill said, and she lowered her heel over my right eye. What was that covering her foot? Paint? "That's good," Jill continued, "because you still have to clean my kitchen for me."

"No," I gasped.

"Yes," Jill whispered and wiped her foot over my face, separating more of the strange white specks from her sole. My face was covered with them now. They had a strange, sour smell to them.

I coughed, and tried to move my head out of range. "What is that?" I asked.

Jill giggled and brought her other foot down onto my face. "Don't you know dried, spilled milk when you see it, Bob?"

I couldn't see her but she must have been sitting behind me, upon the stool to which she'd fastened me, her long legs dangling down over me, her pasty, milk-coated feet working at my lips, trying to force my tongue out.

"You're going to give me a footbath, Bob," she said. "And if you miss a single smear, I really will wrap your face in one of Eileen's dirty diapers.

"NOW. GET. TO. WORK. BITCH!" she barked.

Jill shuffled her soles over my face, her heel dragging over my nose ... contorting it in unnatural ways, her toes mopping my jaw and cheeks.

"There's a big, sticky patch on my right heel, Bob," she said, softly now. "Will you get that for me?"

Uhh.

This isn't over.

Not by a long shot.

"And my toes are really sticky, too," she said. "Here, suck."

Jill inserted her big toe into my mouth, then the lanky neighboring one, using these two digits to pry my lips so far apart that my mouth ached, so her whole foot could follow.

Uhh.

"You better save some saliva for my kitchen floor, Bob," she added. "I've been so busy with my career--you remember what a career is, right, Bob?--that I haven't had time to even sweep it, not to mention mop it, in weeks."

[Eddie08]

At about five, Jill kicked me out of her house.

I mean that literally.

She didn't just evict me from the premises, she swung her hips back, heel arcing and she kicked me in the ribs--again and again.

I rolled.

I crawled, the top of Jill's bare foot punishing me, prodding me as a rider might her horse toward the exit.

I scurried ahead, toward the door, turned the handle.

Crazy bitch.

She caught up and yanked my hair, causing my head to jolt back, then shoved me forward, slamming the front of my skull against her front door. Instant headache, skull-jarringly so.

She tore my hand off of the knob then ripped the door open herself.

She grabbed a clutch of my hair, then tossed me out.

I tumbled down her front steps, crashing unnaturallly onto her lawn.

Cursing, I shoved myself to my feet, and ambled off, clumsy and panting.

[Eddie08]

A week passed.

Two days after Jill had set her insidious trap for Gary and me, I'd felt good enough to get out of bed, and by the fourth day I was making phone calls, finally getting strong enough to make it out of the house on day five and six for a couple of tryouts.

Then, wham, good news, I'd landed a job not far from my hometown of Syosset. You see, on the Island I was still a big deal, and club owner Stewie Steinberg knew it.

So tonight I was "standing up" at Stew's on the Island, trying to make some dough to pay the rent and buy myself time to mull over my appearance, or no-show, on "Live with Shelly and Seamus."

Problem is ...

My audience silently stewed. Up to now, I'd ignored their requests. I hadn't anticipated that this familiar audience would have certain expectations--expectations that they kept rudely vocalizing in a forceful and disruptive way.

"So, here I am in the comedian breeding ground of the world--New York's Long Island!"

I waited. Hum-dee-dum.

I know I shouldn't use cliches but you know that thing about crickets? Not a single clap or "uh-huh."

"Well," I said, trying to 'project' my voice over the silence. "I did hear a clearing of the throat somewhere out there, so that counts for something."

More silence.

"You know, let me tell you about my Uncle Junior--"

Another voice from the crowd, cutting me off.

"Tell us about Jill!"

To this, some audience members clapped, others shouted "yeah!" and "that's right."

Another fool yelled, "Tell us how bad her feet smelled."

My jaw dropped. I just stared into the crowd as if each and every one of them had just stuck a knife into my back.

"Yeah, tell us how you put Limberger under your nose--that gets me every time!"

"Tell us about your ex-girlfriend--the one who dumped you at the altar!"

My chest started heaving. A tear rolled down my cheek.

The pain never goes away.

Why had she done that to me?

Why me?

Why act as if you love someone only to leave that poor soul alone at the altar on your wedding day?

"Come on, Bobby, you can do it!"

The voice sounded familiar. I looked around, trying to pinpoint the supporter.

At first I thought I'd spot Gary, but no--it had been an older man's voice, an even more familiar voice. Someone in the front row was waving.

My eyes locked onto the waver's face.

Dad.

He was nearly eighty, but he'd made the drive from Jericho. Sharp as a tack and strong as an ox, that guy. And I could see the pride in his eyes, the willful expression of someone who loved me and who was pulling for me.

"Yeah, so my ex-fiancee, Jill," I started. "She was one of those working girls who fancied herself a ballet performer. She took like, I don't know, something like one class every two weeks."

They were smiling, my dad among them. This is what they had come for. My old-school act.

"So, the night I met here--she'd just had this live performance, and I talked to her and complimented her a little after the show, and then I took her home, you know, for a little--" I made an obscene gesture with my hands and fingers.

The crowd giggled.

"So we're lying on my sofa and she takes her shoes off, and she's still got her pantyhose on from the performance--and asks me if I can rub her feet."

More giggles. Expectant stares.

"So I start rubbing the broad's feet and they smell so fucking bad that I get up and start searching under the mattress for my two-week-old tuna and rye sandwich."

That got a few laughs. I kept it going.

"So I'm rubbing her feet, and before I can sweet-talk her, the stench causes me to pass out." I look at the crowd sadly for effect. "And let me tell you, friends, it wasn't from the alcohol I drank that night."

The crowd laughs.

"I mean, this broad's feet smelled like a mixture of chloroform and a putrified giant-clam meat."

A couple of spectators gagged; the rest treated me to more laughter ... then even some applause.

Now for the knockout punch.

"Hey!"

I froze, trying to discern the direction of this new, disembodied voice.

It'd been a woman.

I noticed motion below. Someone was rushing down the aisle, toward the stage.

Shit!

No!

Her hair was especially on fire tonight, a mop of dark-red-orange curls bouncing and snaking up and out as she ran. She tossed her legs up onto the stage and without breaking stride, pivoted and raced toward me at the mike.

The audience babbled in confusion ... but some of them knew, some of them clapped in recognition and anticipation.

I spun and ran to a different spot on the stage, looked back.

There she was, adjusting her course; closing in.

Jill.

"Security!" I choked.

Jill leapt.

I ducked, covering my head. Waited.

She landed on my shoulders, her legs immediately wrapping around my neck, and I heard her give a little grunt as she used her cartwheeling motion to flip me over, onto my back, her thighs still clamped down on both sides of my neck, muffling my ears as my audience continued to murmur.

They were wondering if this was real.

"Gonna tell more jokes about my feet?" Jill demanded, cinching her hold tighter, then loosening it ... before snapping my neck again. "Huh?"

Uhh.

It was late-July, a humid 95 degrees in the metropolitan New York area. Jill had worn a plaid mini-skirt, like those worn by Catholic school girls, only devilishly shorter. I'd noticed the white, button-down blouse, earlier, and now ... now, all I could see was her pale, freckled legs, perfectly toned, her thigh and calf muscles tensing then loosening, balling then loosening, the soft flesh of her inner thighs dampening the side of my face with her summer sheen as she pressed. She wore long, dark-blue knee socks and a pair of black, ankle-high boots with spikes that she used to dig into my shins.

"Jill," I croaked. "I-I- uhhhhh!"

Jill squeezed and I had to pause.

I caught my breath and tried to hurry my explanation, my plea-- "Jill, I wasn't planning on telling any--"

Another squeeze from thirty-two-year-old Jill Cafferty's scissoring, schoolgirl legs.

"I don't want to hear it, pussyface!" she hissed.

I grabbed her legs, tried to separate them.

Her hand came down HARD across my face, her nails, painted red, scratching my cheek. The stinging lasted for nearly a minute.

"Don't ever touch me!" Jill spat, and gave my neck another tug.

To the audience--my audience--I heard her say, "You know what I'm going to do to this lame dick ... so you nice people never have to ever sit through his lame act again?"

The audience laughed in stereo; clapped.

Jill bent her knees, easing off only slightly on the scissorhold; her feet now resting on my crotch.

"Take off my shoes, Bob," she said.

[Eddie08]

Hi Mephisto,
Thanks for following along with this shit and thanks for the comments. Not many people take the time to comment and it is much appreciated.

[jaym]

I've not only been following this awesome saga, but am enjoying the ride immensely! I also know how hard it can be to maintain enthusiasm for writing long stories, and I am in awe of how you've non only done it here, but several other times as well! I sense an ending to this tale and am excited to see how it ends up!

[iceblock]

Eddie, this is awesome mate. Not sure if I'd added to this thread or not yet but if not, I'm lovin this. Any story where the guy never catches a break is fine by me. Looking forward to more parts that for sure.

[Eddie08]

My face still stung from the sharp smack of Jill's palm, from her slicing red nails. What those talons had done to Gary's face, and what they had now perhaps done to mine...I didn't want to know. I pried at Jill's legs, right behind her knees.

She tightened her hold, really forcing me into her sweet spot, just like a true pair of scissors, right in the crotch. It was as if the instep of her partially skirted thighs had a groove that she'd now locked me in.

As Jill squeezed again, her hands came over my face. She took my nose between her thumb and index finger and clamped my nostrils shut. Her moist, warm palm flattened over my mouth.

"No breathing until I get that foot massage."

The audience had gone silent. Everything had. That plaid skirt had folded over my face, like a veil, stars were popping in the edges of my vision. I choked.

I couldn't breathe.

"Juh- ... Juh-llllllllll."

Jill cocked her hips, then snapped her blades down over the sides of my neck.

I could hear crackling noises, not from outside, but from inside my skull.

"Oh-kuh ... Okay," I managed.

"Good," Jill announced to the crowd, more flashes, the word "good" suddenly a three-syllable word. Gooooooooooooooddddddduhhh.

Mind playing tricks on me, about to black out, Jill's boot now nestled next to my chin in a figure-four leg lock.

"Take my boot off, Bob--isn't it a pretty boot?"

From the crowd: "Miss, I'm warning you--let go of him!"

Dad?

Jill ignored the spectator, whoever he was.

"Bob, am I really going to have break your neck? Take off my fucking, boot," she said softly.

I closed my eyes; opened them. Nothing had changed. The hem of Jill's skirt was still tickling my face, her freckled milky thighs were still squeezing my neck in that vice-like, figure-four lock.

"Hurry up or I--REALLY WILL BREAK YOUR FUCKING NECK!" Jill spat.

I reached for her booted foot, my elbows bending to get at it since the back of her heel was right there resting against my throat..

I undid her boot-buckle.

How ridiculous. On a thirty-two year-old woman yet.

I slid the boot from Jill's foot, and the scent of her sweaty dark sock hit me immediately.

Ihh. But before I could hold my breath, Jill grabbed her own ankle and cinched the hold.

More stars, the awareness of a someone shouting at us from the audience.

Jill crossed her legs, the top of her second boot now resting against my chin.

"Now the other one."

I unbuckled Jill's second boot, slid it off, and watched in dread as she flexed her sock-covered toes.

"Ahh, that's better," Jill said, cooing. She stood up, then stepped onto my sternum. I could feel the warm dampness of her sock-covered soles. "I've had these boots on since this morning--that's like ten hours. My feetskies really hurt."

My dad from the crowd again. He was sticking up for me. A rush of shame surged through my body and I moved quickly, seizing Jill's ankles, tugging. She almost fell.

Almost.

"What was that?" she wailed as she stepped onto my nuts--OUCH-- then back onto my chest. "I could have fallen!" Jill slapped me across the jaw with her socked foot.

"I'm warning you, miss. ... Last chance!" Dad called from the front row.

Still ignoring him, Jill glared down at me, her lips and chin in a poutish gesture. "Well if you'd only massage my tired feet, I'd let you go."

"Fuck you, Jill," I hissed weakly. "Your feet stink worse than ever."

"Be that way," Jill said, and stepped onto my face.

[Eddie08]

If you've ever lived with a woman you've inevitably walked into her walk-in closet and caught a strong whiff of her shoes airing out.

As you know, it is a sweet, leathery smell, made more offensive maybe by a faint trace of urine from the "Hers" hamper that's also in the closet.

That's what Jill's feet smelled like with those warm, damp socks on.

"Take a good breath," Jill urged with a wiggle of her toes.

***

Minutes later, Jill stepped down, then lifted my limp head and wrapped her legs around my neck.

Shit. Not this again. You have to understand how I felt. I was in la-la land. Completely paralyzed by Jill Cafferty's dominating personality and pheromones. From her potentially lethal headscissors.

She pulled off a sock right in front of my face.

Again, she crossed her legs, removed the second sock.

She shoved it in my mouth, and when I clenched my teeth in rebellion, Jill reapplied the figure-four so my lips gasped apart and she could stuff her sock all the way in so the part for her toes was half-way down my throat.

"Massage my feet," she demanded, projecting her voice so the entire club, including my horrified dad, could hear.

***

Begrudgingly I started to massage Jill's feet.

First her soles, kneading them pamperingly even though she still had her half-skirted thighs cinched around my neck.

Then the tops of her feet, my thumbs stirring in dropules of her sweat as I worked my way around to her heels.

Her heels, like hypnotic fruits, as I gave them a good but gentle buffing.

My dad didn't see it that way.

The foolish old man yelled--then he ran onstage.

Jill released me, sprang to her feet, and scrambled to meet my dad for the first time.

Oh, the family we could have been ... if only Jill hadn't been so cruel.

I heard a sharp, clucking sound and lifted my head to better see.

Dad was on the ground, motionless and in a fetal position.

Jill was standing over him barefoot, straddling him, shouting at him and giving him little nudges with her foot.

She'd punched my dad!

I pushed myself to my feet with every bit of life left in me, staggered toward them.

"Dad!" I moaned and kneeled next to him. Felt his pulse.

I spun toward Jill, stuttering with hatred. "Youttth Bidge-uh!"

Jill padded across the stage, toward the dressing rooms. She turned in the archway, just before disappearing, and gave a curt smile.

"If you ever try to do your own show again, Bobby, I'll kill you." She glanced down at my dad, and gestured with her chin. "The old man needs to learn some manners." And with that, Jill, the bitch from hell, who may have just killed my father, exited stage left.

I turned back toward my dad; there was blood pouring from his nose.

The stunned audience watched.

"Help him!" I screamed.

[Eddie08]

That's the end of Act 2.
:theband:

[mephistofele2]

great act 2! i can't wait for part 3 !

[Eddie08]

Jill had crossed a line. She'd boldly and flippantly skipped past a point of no return.

Imagine someone, man or woman, no matter who they were and how much you'd once loved them ... imagine that that person had purposely placed the life of one of your loved ones in jeopardy. Your only surviving parent.

I left Dad at the hospital resting. I'd been there all night, waiting for his condition to stabilize. Finally, the doctor had told me there was nothing I could do for my Dad, that I should go home and get some rest. Dad would make it through the night.

I told you my old man was a horse.

When I got home and checked my mail, there was a notice from the bank about my apartment. Unless I could come up with six-thousand dollars by next Tuesday, they'd foreclose and have me evicted.

Jill!

She'd been siphoning my earnings from the show to the point where I hadn't been able to pay my monthly mortgage, eat anything aside from spaghetti or peanut butter and jelly. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep sufficient fuel in my car. To make the payments on the vehicle itself.

But I wasn't through yet.

Glassman had assured me that if I went on "Live With Shelly and Seamus" Monday, he would GUARANTEE my 10K from the TV network. The appearance was separate from my Silverman's agreement. He further pointed this out by mentioning Freddie Hayes, whom Glassman represented, and with whom the club owner and promoter had a similar agreement. Any appearance Freddie or I did outside of Silverman's had its own agreement and thus had NOT been part of the contract which Jill had amended. That's why my signature for Shelly and Seamus had been on a separate page, Glassman had explained--a separate page that I had signed.

So I would let Jill Cafferty continue to humiliate me for a bit longer and take my paycheck while my father teetered between life and death in the hospital. She'd smashed his face in, breaking the cartilage in Dad's nose and all the facial bones in his skull. He'd have to have multiple surgeries from the single punch she'd laid on him. A suckerpunch by all purposes. On an eighty-year-old man!

Still don't believe I'm serious about getting my revenge?

I'd even purchased some chloroform that I planned to use on her right after the TV show.

But to control her, to get her in the car from the studio parking lot, I was going to need help. Who would help me do this?

Why Gary, of course.

Gary who wore a permanent reminder of what Jill had done to him, the gouges on his face far worse than the mere scratches Jill had left on mine. It looked like a mountain lion had clawed my friend's face, serrating his cheek muscles, digging grooves in his forehead. He was lucky not to have lost an eye.

Sure, he would help me, Gary had said. Just tell him where and when, and he'd be there.

For the next four days I slept ... or tried to as most of the time I was seething about Jill and all of the treacherous things she'd done ... about what I wanted to do to her. The rest of that time I spent in the hospital with Dad, holding his hand as he recovered from the first of several painful rehabilitative surgeries.

A couple of times I called Gary and had him come over to go over the plan, but for the most part it was all about the waiting.

I waited--

... and waited for my day on America's most popular network morning show.

Because when the show was over, I was going to torture Jill Cafferty for all of the horrible things the bitch had done to me, my family, and friends.

[Eddie08]

On the morning I was set to drive to the studio--no limo for me, thanks to Jill--I received further grim news. The check for my solo act on Long Island had been canceled. Old Stewie was claiming since I hadn't fulfilled my obligation to perform for 90 minutes, he was re-NEGGING on the deal.

I wondered if all the other checks I'd written weren't bouncing all over the city.

I would play Jill's clown just a bit longer. Whatever she wanted me to do onstage for "Live With Shelly and Seamus" I would oblige. But as soon as the show was over, and the bitch had left her dressing room for the parking lot, Gary and I were going to get her.

This time there was no mercy in my shredded heart. I was going to do it right this time, treat it professionally.

After all, I honestly no longer loved Jill Cafferty. I truly hated her and regretted ever moment I'd spent with her, every second I'd wasted thinking about her.

I thought about my dad as I pulled into the studio spot reserved for "The Jill Cafferty Show." The signs couldn't have been more obnoxious. Each had a caricature of Jill wearing white-with-green-shamrock boxing gloves.

As I exited my car, I heard a whistle. A studio security guard approached me, a clipboard cradled under one arm.

"Yo, brother, what's your name?"

"Bob Goldman," I told him.

The guard checked his list. "You ain't on here."

"I'm in the show. I'm one of today's guests, not an audience member."

"Oh," he said, and stared some more at his list. "Oh, you is Bob Goldman, Miss Cafferty's assistant?"

"Yes," I said, and started walking past him.

The security guard held out his arm. "Not so fast." He grinned as he read something from his clipboard pad. "There's a note here that says you have to park in the general area."

Of all the nerve! Jill was doing everything in her power to torture me. When I had my chance, she was going to pay. I was going to tie her up and let Gary work her over a little--with me close-by, in case Gary went too far--and then I was going to take a triple-tassled whip and whip her feet until they bled.

I was going to spit in her face, as she had spit in mine.

I was going to degrade her in every way she'd degraded me.


***

I think you already know this show that I was on.

There's a twitchy older guy with curly short hair and ugly suits, and a chipper young blonde actress posing as an entertainment host. She's knockout-gorgeous, with blonde hair and pale-blue eyes, and she bosses the older guy Seamus around and tells jokes at his expense.

Sometimes she even slaps him playfully.

One time she had a guest on selling women's shoes, and gorgeous, blonde Shelly, mother of two, took off her mules and put on a pair of spiked Biselli Elegantes (don't Google this, I made it up) from Milan. Then, Shelly had pushed Seamus to the ground and walked on his chest, laughing the whole time.

The stunned audience had been delighted. The frivolity had made it online and was the stuff that legends are made of.

After being permitted into the building, I was directed behind a kitchen counter that the stagehands had rolled onstage. Behind the counter was a gym mat. Seamus came out to greet me, shook my hand.

"Hi, Bob--Seamus Billpen--thanks for coming on. We're going to go on in a few minutes."

I liked him. He seemed genuine.

"Let's take our positions for when the ladies come out."

Seamus took off his jacket, placed it over the back of a chair, and then lay down on the mat, the top of his head pointing toward center stage.

"Just walk past me, and assume the next spot on the mat," the show's eccentric co-host told me.

I cleared my throat, hesitated.

Just a little longer, I told myself.

I moved past Seamus, the toes of his dress shoes pointing up toward the stage lights. He looked relaxed.

Inside I was ready to explode.

I laid a few feet away from Seamus, my head also resting against the kitchen counter, my feet pointing toward the backdrop.

"So I hope you're into beautiful women's feet like I am," Seamus said, then reached over and slapped my arm. He had a funny, but dry laugh.

I could hear the audience filtering in. It was still early. How long did we have to wait? I asked Seamus, "Didn't you say we were going to start in a few minutes--the crowd isn't--"

"The crowd never watches same-day dress rehearsal," Seamus said, then sighed; relaxed. "The girls will have a lot of lines to work on."

A fucking rehearsal? Jill had to rehearse humiliating me in front of a crowd? Didn't she AND Shelly have enough practice doing that?

"What will they be doing?" I asked.

"Cooking quiche," Seamus said, and placed his hands over his eyes. "Well, guess I'll take a nap while we wait."

Rolling my head toward him, I stared at Seamus in astonishment.

A minute later, he was snoring.

***

Shelly came out first. I heard the clack of our heels. She was wearing bright-red Biselli Elegantes and matching toenail polish. I know this because she came right over to us, and stepped onto Seamus' chest. She was a petite woman, but had a hard, toned body, the product of working out day and night, five days a week, I'd read somewhere. She had on a black and white halter-top dress. Her hairstyle was curvy, so that it could curve around her little pinkish ears, upon which she wore gold-diamond earrings.

I immediately disliked her.

The wealthy elite, the spoiled and pampered--that was kind of like Jill.

I heard the sound of approaching footsteps; Jill wearing--what the fuck?! sneakers???!!!

"I've been working out with Shelly all morning, Seamus," Jill said, stepping on the man's stomach, squeezing past Shelly and then stepping onto my chest. She continued her conversation with the show's hosts, ignoring my existence.

"So when does the camera go on these two doormats again?" Jill asked, this time addressing Shelly. She'd put on a fresh tanktop, but I could tell she hadn't showered, I could see the sweat on her brow and neckline, and on her arms. She got comfortable by placing her hands on the counter, her leg muscles flexing above me.

"Right near the end," Shelly answered. "After the meal is cooked--that's when we take off our shoes."

And Jill obviously hadn't replaced her short-shorts. They were bright red and cotton; there was a dark, damp patch right over her crotch.

I could smell her body odor, her skin hot and seeping with her body's exhaust, her partially-rolled-up ankle socks catching the sweat dripping down her thighs.

Uhh.

"Aren't you going to shower, Jill, my newest, bestest girlfriend?" Shelly Apir asked.

"I'll do it before the show," Jill said, wiping her brow and then rubbing her fingers together so her sweat sprinkled me.

So I was going to have to go through this TWICE before I got my revenge.

That's all right.

I'm a patient man.

Are you?

[spyki]

fantastic story. thank you so much for writing it.

[Eddie08]

Understand I had to do it.

My dad's hospital bills were already adding up, and there was the payment I owed on my apartment, and ...

You get the picture.

People were milling about now, the nervous energy that occured right before showtime, beautiful young interns carrying things from one side of the stage to the other, cameramen positioning themselves or making final adjustments on the stationary cameras. A lot of the pretty young interns were smiling down at me as they walked past, dropping off trays of ingredients and other accessories--but their smiles were polite almost sympathetic smiles.

Let's face it, I looked foolish--especially because there was this fuzzy redhead sopping with sweat standing on me, her sneakers pressing down on my chest as she rehearsed her lines with Shelly.

"So I have the eggs?" Jill asked.

"Yes--we'll put the biscuit batter here, right over Seamus' head, and the egg bowl here, on the counter above Bob's face."

"OK," Jill said, her heel coming up casually as she placed the hard rubber toe of her sneaker on my left shoulder. "Now what kind of questions are you going to ask me?"

More audience members were being escorted to their seats--I could hear the buzz, though I couldn't see them. Shelly and Jill--to ensure that these early arrivals didn't overhear them rehearsing the upcoming cooking segment--had yet to switch on their mikes. Meanwhile, the tall, C-shaped, solid-block counter prohibited the audience from seeing what Shelly and Jill were doing BEHIND it.

From what they were doing to Seamus and me.

Only the two women's heads, shoulders and part of their upper bodies could be seen by the audience.

Fortunate for me.

Nevertheless, I was still going to have to endure the humiliation of Jill doing it to me again--TWICE in one day. Maybe not in front of the growing audience in their seats or the folks watching back home, but in front of Jill, Shelly and Seamus, the latter who was taking his lumps, too, under Shelly's pumps.

"Wait, Shell," Jill exclaimed. "Let me grab the beater and practice a bit." Her speech and movements were all methodical, she was really emphasizing things. To reach the beater, Jill had to step on my face, the ridged toe of her sneaker flattening ... branding ... the flesh under my eye, her other foot joining the first in an inverted fashion, the hot-pink rubber sole resting on the top of the first shoe.

"Geth oft," I managed.

"And now for some eggs," Jill said. "Shell, pass me the carton."

I heard the cracking sound of Jill breaking an egg, the plop of its contents entering the bowl. Another crack, more splattering sounds. A third.

Fourth.

A fifth.

Sixth.

I saw Jill's hip gyrate as she whisked the raw eggs.

Out of the corner of my vision to the right, Shelly lifted a heel and balancing herself, she slipped off a red Elegante.

Seamus' eyes were sparkling. He looked like an old poodle rolling onto its back in hopes of a biscuit.

I continued to watch in disbelief as the show's pretty host removed her second shoe, then stepped barefoot onto the face of her co-host.

"How's this, Jill?" Shelly said with a squeal.

"Not bad for a beginner, babe," Jill answered and I felt her stepping back, off of my face, onto my chest.... Ahh, finally some release for my tortured mug. I brought my fingers to my face and traced the deep depressions on my forehead, my cheeks, my chin.

I couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Get it out of your system now, Jill," I whispered in a hiss. "Coz when the show's over, I'm going to settle this score once and for all."

Shit! Why had I just done that? Showed my hand.

Jill turned back toward the counter, and as she did, I saw Shelly cross her arms and shake her head. Her toes were now pointing toward me, hanging over the side of Seamus's face, wiggling as if she were trying to air them out.

"Wow, Jill--you didn't tell me he gave you any lip," Shelly said, admonishing me and Jill in a single statement.

Jill half-turned from the counter, her heel dropped onto my throat.

Ooof.

"Well, there's a little fight in him still," Jill said, her brogue slipping through slightly as she addressed Shelly's comment. "Once in a while, he's like a runty little puppy barking at me until I kick him and he rolls over and then I make him lick my toes while I watch TV."

"What do you think of that, Seamus?" Shelly said, turning then glancing down into Seamus' eyes, which peeked back up at her between her toes.

"Wuh, uh, ummmm, muh," Seamus slurred.

"I thought as much--now Jill, I have the biscuit ingredients in front of me, and I'll need ... what? -- four eggs for that?"

I felt Jill lean forward, one foot on my throat, the other back on my face. "Yes, four eggs for the biscuits," she confirmed.

Crack, crack, crack--plop.

Four times.

"What else are you going to ask me, Shell?" Jill said, keeping the conversation going.

"I'll ask, What started the feud between you and Bob and how did you gain the upper hand in the relationship?"

"OK," Jill said, and I saw her glance down at me over her shoulder, before projecting her voice. "Well, first of all, to set the record straight, even though I said I watch movies with Bob, there is absolutely no intimate relationship between the two of us. It's strictly professional. Unless you consider me kicking him in his ugly fucking face as intimate!" Jill said, shouting the last several words.

"No swearing on the show, please," Shelly reminded.

"Sorry," Jill said.

"But really," Shelly continued. "How is it that you always come out on top?"

"Huh, that's a good question--I suppose to some degree it's because Bob is such a fucking faggot...oops, sorry, I promise it won't happen again ... he's like my human punchline-slash-punching bag, and if he ever gives me trouble during the act I beat him like a stray dog. Speaking of which, did you hear that Bob is having some financial difficulties, and is about to get evicted from his apartment?"

Seamus was snoring under Shelly's feet. "Oh, I love Seamus when he falls asleep, especially during the show--it gives me a chance to laugh at him."

"I know the feeling," Jill said.

"So what do you like least about working with Bob, and what do you like best?"

"The answer is always the same, Shelly--" Jill began, then turned and motioned to the director whose name was Ellen Pryor.

Pryor came over.

"Yes, Jill?"

"Can I do it now?"

Pryor frowned and scratched her chin. "Well, I wasn't planning on having you go through this whole process all over again during the show--I mean the batter is almost ready for both dishes--but sure, why not?"

"Great," Jill said, and I felt her leaning forward, one sneakered foot still on my throat, the other on my sternum. Her back straightened and I stared up at her, my mouth open wide as I gasped for breath. The weight of her standing on me was blocking my windpipe.

And that's not all.

She held the bowl just above my head, slightly tilted.

Nobody wants slimy raw eggs on their face.

I started to lift my head, and saw the camerman sneak in to get this shot, for he was rehearsing, too.

The bowl was enormous. Jill brought her arms back, then forward again, and I instantly saw the tsunami of yellow slime descend toward my face, the pour angling toward my gasping mouth.

My final thought before the raw eggs flooded my face was that I would have to go through this twice.

Ihhh. Gag.

I heard Jill and Shelly giggle, and then Jill's voice, rubbing it in as usual.

"My favorite thing about working with Bob, Shelly, is that no matter where we perform, no matter what the skit, no matter who joins us on stage or intervenes--" Jill paused to wait for me to stop coughing and gagging from the raw, nauseating smell.

"--is that he ALWAYS, ALWAYS ends up with egg on his face!"

Shelly snorted with laughter, then wiggled her tiny, red-painted toes over the sleeping Seamus' face.

I heard a clunk, then another, I glanced back up, coughed, and saw that Jill had removed her sneakers ... now she was yanking her socks off. She leaned down and shoved one of the ripe, damp socks into my mouth.

"Uh! Uh-huhhhhhh," I said in protest.

Jill placed her sweaty sole on my egg-covered face, then propped her other foot over the top for reinforcement.

"Oh my god," she complained as she fanned herself above me. "That is so-ohhh disgusting."

Every man has his limit.

I was going to pull that fiery hair right out of her skull for this, stuff those fucking curls in her mouth, make her swallow enough of it to fill a barber shop.

Jill's heel returned to my throat ... as the sole of her other foot swiped over my nose and face, anointing me with the six-egg-seasoned-with-foot-sweat batter ... forcing it into my eyes, my nostrils, my gasping mouth.

I was about to spit it out, right back up at her, when the bitch jammed her slime-covered foot into my mouth.

"I hate you," she said, then cleared her throat and spat on my chest.

[smother sitter]

This story is great. I know I same similar thing before, But I realy apperciate this regular updates. Thank you again. You inspire me

[Eddie08]

So you think you know torture?

Well let me tell you a thing or two.

Jill performed gracefully. She was funny. The audience adored her. Adored her looks, her smile, her legs when she came out from behind the counter, toward the end of the show. Wearing the same pair of Elegante's that Shelly had worn during dress rehearsal.

She'd rested her heels on my face for most of the show, stood on my throat a few times.

"Yeah, one time I was brushing my teeth backstage and Bob came into my room, and he scared me so bad that I spat the toothpaste right in his face and then kicked him unconscious all in a second."

It was true.

"And then there was that time I put my--umm, can I say, Butt?' I put my butt on Bob's face and um, had a little gas spurt."

Hysterical laughter from the "Live With Shelly and Seamus" supporters.

Once she'd added a twist. I saw her fingers clutching an egg as she read the recipe aloud for the audience. Sneaky. She'd dropped it on my nose. A perfect shot and it has splattered.

I went to a far-off place, the hospital room where my dad lay awaiting his next surgery. In my mind I visualized him now, versus what he had been.

The fucking bitch.

I came back.

The same hand that had dropped the egg reached back and freed Jill's heel from the strap of the red Elegante.

She removed the other shoe, then stepped onto my face so that her heels rested on my chin, her toes flexed in my eyes, yanking on my eyelashes.

Stench.

Bitch.

"Sometimes I get so angry with him that I walk up and kick him right in the face," Jill told the audience. Behind the counter, on my face, she shoved her toes into my nose, bending the cartilage.

Evil. Bitch.

My out-of-body consciousness returned to my father's hospital room. Sensed something wrong. Dad lying limp; nurse entering in a panic.

Then, after the part with Jill spilling some eggs behind the counter and the live cameraman following to capture a shot of me lying there silly under Jill's feet, the eggs puddling on my chest and face. Only Jill's ankles remained clean of the mess.

I got up and walked off-stage, shamed more than I'd ever been in my life. More shamed than anyone had possibly ever been.

And then she insulted me again with her luck.

As I pursued Jill, freshly showered, on her way out of the studio, Shelly intercepted, taking Jill's arm. "Come with me."

"Where we going?" Jill asked, staying me with a glance. She'd been glancing back suspiciously at me since she'd strode from the dressing room a minute ago. She must have wondered--why was I tagging along?

Shelly Apir looked down at her legs. "My feet weren't on camera a lot tonight, but tomorrow they'll need to be. Once a week I get a pedicure. You're joining me."

And Shelly pulled on Jill's arm and the pair of them trotted away.

I would have to wait some more.

[Eddie08]

Fellas. I lost some work, earlier in the story, and then had to recreate a scene. This is why I am saving so often and creating so many replies. Apologize if it is irritating.

[Eddie08]

Jill emerged from the building a little past three. It was a sunny afternoon. Pleasant. Because of the longggggggggggggggg pedicure, Jill was leaving the building well after most of the crew had already gone home. The studio parking lot was mostly empty.

Except for Gary!

As Jill found her car, clicked on the remote unlock, Gary sprung out from behind her and got her in a powerful bear hug.

I jogged over.

I was looking forward to this.

Gary hoisted her up and I wheeled and dealed.

Got her, in the thigh, though I'd been aiming for her face.

"Stop bucking, you bitch!" I hollered.

I cocked my fist back, turned my waist.

Jill's feet came up--fucking ridiculous. She wore pink flipflops and her toenails were freshly painted red, and pieces of tissue paper were jammed between her toes.

The evil bitch was not only lucky. She was quick.

The heels of Jill's flipflops smacked my face, a straight-on shot, the blow blurring my vision. Stars flickered in my periphery. Another headache. I staggered, my knees weak.

"Ha-ha!" Jill celebrated, the flipflops falling off as she kicked and squirmed in Gary's arms. Then pow--her feet kicked my face again, this time barefoot.

When I came to, someone had me under the arms, then hoisted me off the pavement. Small, crumbled pieces of tissue paper fell off my face where Jill had placed them.

I wheeled angrily and saw the security guard, who, reacting quickly, seized my collar and tossed me against a car. Another guard joined him, and then suddenly there were three of them, all bigger than me, one brandishing a nightstick.

I struggled, looking for Gary.

The guard with the club came at me, I saw the look in his eyes.

"I give!" I yelled and froze rigidly.

Gary was gone, run off probably. On his way to a different state. If I had the money I'd leave myself.

A cop car pulled up, minutes later, as the guards were detaining and questioning me.

A young officer got out, hustled over. "Robert Goldman, you're being charged with a violation of your probation--a court-issued restraining order.

"I am placing you under arrest," the cop continued as he pulled my hands behind my back and read me the rest of my rights.

What rights did I have, really?

None.

I'd lost my fiance's love, my career, my money, my cars, my apartment.

My pride.

My self-respect.

And now possibly my father.

All because of her.

God, if you're up there, and while it's hard for me to have faith in that right now, grant me this one wish. Give me one more shot at that bitch. Just one more shot.

[mephistofele2]

simply amazing...:)

[Eddie08]

See that worn-out-looking man--the one shambling down the street?

The one with the long hair, tattered coat, stained pants and open-toed shoes?

That's me.

For the past year, I've been living on the street. Inside a cardboard box some nights, and in the city's numerous shelters on those evenings when there was enough room to squeeze between all the other hard-luck cases crashed out on the floor.

Dave Glassman, who's a big-shot filmmaker now, thought my riches-to-rags story was interesting. That's why he's had a camera crew following me around for the last two weeks.

Cameras or not, I'm almost always on the move. Searching for something.


***

Dad made it--a full recuperation--and hence the assault and pending manslaughter charges against Jill all went away. Somehow Dad managed to track me down and staged an intervention in the alley where I'd been residing for a few days straight. He told me his home was my home, and that I could take my time and get well. Heal. Get back to work. Live my life again.

I wept in response. I wept so long that eventually Dad just patted my shoulder and gotten back into the taxi with the rest of the intervention team, and the cab had sped away. Freddie Hayes had come with Dad, as had one of my favorite cousins. But I didn't want to talk to any of them. I was far too ashamed.

Word got out, and the only thing that blasted intervention had accomplished was to bring me back into the public eye: Glassman's new show. It was called "Celebrity Homeless" and I was the star. It paid, and so I'd signed. I didn't want to wallow in hopelessness and self-pity for ever. I still had hopes. Big plans.

I needed to eat.

And besides--I knew what a showman Glassman was. Eventually he'd want to optimize his ratings with a special guest appearance by an old, mutual friend.

Jill was thirty-eight now, and in the six years since she'd left me unconscious and under arrest in the "Live With Shelly and Seamus" parking lot, she'd achieved amazing success.

A regular guest-spot on "Live With Shelly and Seamus."

A member of the Mad TV troupe.

A part in a major Hollywood release called "The Picts" in which she played a barbarian woman who painted her lithe body blue and terrorized Roman soldiers--on both sides of the wall--with her spear and nightmarish battle cry.

More money than she knew what to do with.

Then, I'd read from a "People" magazine I'd lifted from a newsstand a few months ago that she'd gotten pregnant again. That she was taking a hiatus from her career to be "the best Mommy (she) could be."

There'd been a picture of her at a playground pushing Eileen, now six, on a swing, Mommy's belly bulging a bit.

The good news, and my twisted, starving gut had so needed some good news, is that I'd recognized the park from the picture. It was in Greenwich Village where my vagrant amblings had occasionally taken me.

The bad news: I'd gone to that park every day since seeing the photo and each time there'd been no Jill.

I hoped to return there as long as I could until one day I'd catch her there and thrash her with my long, dirty nails, bite her with my rotting, jagged teeth, wipe my homeless taint all over the bitch.

I wasn't going to wait for Glassman to finally decide to lead me to her ... or her to me ... for that big Season Finale conflict that every show needed to reach a second season.

I was going to make things happen, initiate the action.

Of course, I told no one of my plan, especially Glassman who had screwed me nearly as many times as Jill had.

But for now, while I searched, I'd play along with Glassman and his smash, new "Celebrity Homeless" reality show. Glassman had shown me the receipts of the money he was depositing in an account in my name. The amount was now up to nearly three thousand.

Soon, I'd be off the street and back in an apartment, Glassman had promised me.

Six years of waiting.

The first five in which I'd watched the last of everything I'd ever achieved slip away. My apartment, my cars, my money, then my smoldering career, my friends, my health, my sobriety, until finally even Dad kicked me out. I was using.

Then, Dad had wanted to give it another try. To have me back.

But I was too far gone. I'd bawled the whole time he, cousin Art, and Freddie had tried to reason with me.

Many times over those first five years since "Shelly and Seamus," I'd tried to locate Gary, but hadn't found a trace of him. It'd been as if the guy had disappeared from the face of the earth. No forwarding address. No phone number. No surprise phone calls. Even his own parents hadn't heard from him and had no idea of his whereabouts.

I hobbled across the paved lot toward the park. I could hear children's voices, their laughter.

Perhaps Jill had made good on her promise to drown Gary in her toilet. Perhaps she'd somehow been able to remove the chloroform from his vest and use it on him. Perhaps she'd commandeered the van we'd planned to use to transport her to our safehouse. Perhaps she'd drowned him in her toilet and then buried him somewhere in her private backyard in Westchester, just at the foot of the forest.

Given all that had happened, and Jill's intolerable luck, the notion wasn't so far-fetched.

I reached the chain-link fence, grasped it, the fingers of my wool gloves worn right through. I peered in toward the playground, my eyes following the various sources of playful commotion.

My heart jumped. There! By the swingset!

A young, red-haired girl, being pushed by her mother. Mom's hair shone in the autumn sun, far brighter than any of the red-maple leaves floating down from behind them, far brighter than the daughter's hair.

Jill!

I glanced back at the street. No one was paying any attention to me or the park. People on the sidewalk were racing from their lunchbreaks to return to work. Traffic was zipping past.

I ambled toward the gate, then stopped to take one last appraisal of the park.

The playground portion of the park was sparsely populated. Maybe seven or eight kids, total; three adults--all women, Jill being one of them.

I unhitched the gate and moved toward the swingset.

Luck was on my side this time. Jill had come out from behind the swing to help stop her daughter's momentum; the bitch's back was turned. Eileen jumped down from the swing and went to the spot where her mother had been pushing.

Still grasping the chain in her hand, Jill sat on the swingseat. With her other hand, she reached up and grabbed the other chain. She was facing my direction now, but it didn't matter. I was almost there!

She was wearing a gray wool coat, dark blue jeans, and a pair of moccasins, the latter which she used to shove off from the dirt runway beneath the swing.

Eileen pushed.

Jill pumped and lifted her feet toward the sky.

"Wheeeeeeeh!"

I bit my lip in anger and started toward her.

[Eddie08]

Good fortune.

Ha-ha!

Now it was my turn to laugh.

The rich, red-headed bitch hadn't even recognized me.

She'd looked right at me and then turned away.

Most people do that when they see a homeless person coming toward them.

It's my long hair and my beard, my ruined clothes, the way I walk now.

I moved just within the outward arc of Jill's flight pattern. She'd lost her shoes along the way, kicked the moccasins off to the side where they rested upside down beyond the dirt. Her toes were flexing as she pumped, her soles reaching--

I looked up at her face, expecting to see her smiling or studying me. She wasn't laughing or shouting "Wheeee!" anymore.

She was looking down and away.

Avoid eye contact with the homeless. Go about your business. In this case, getting pushed on a swing by your six-year-old daughter.

"Aye goth yuuuu now bidg-thh!" And I trotted the final few paces just as Jill looked up. In that one terrified moment, her expression revealed that she'd recognized my voice, despite my missing teeth; my face, despite its hermit-like hisute-ness; my intention...

"Mommy!" Eileen shrieked.

My fist cocked back and I growled as I waited for Jill to reach me. In that suspended moment, I saw her belly, now five-months swollen, and hesitated, saw her expression transform from terror to rage, the look of a mother protecting her child from a familiar monster.

Jill's feet punched my face.

Uhhhhhhh, I cried, staggering in a circle. Dizzily, I tried to steady myself, tried to focus--I found her angling back again, and lunged toward her, launching a hook.

Smack.

Jill's soles smacked my face again.

I collapsed.

On my back.

Out.

[Eddie08]

I willed my eyes open, and--partially--they obeyed. Jill's heel had struck my left eye with tremendous force and had swollen it to the point that I could see through a narrow slant only.

I willed my hand down to the dirt below the swing, pushed off from the ground.

I willed my knees to straighten, and they did with a sharp crack.

I willed myself to go after her one last time.

I charged, then veered off. I'd almost clobbered Eileen.

I wheeled and lunged at another person who'd stood around to watch me rise from the dust. Again, I pulled back. Someone's nanny, looking frightened, as she clutched the little black boy she was responsible for.

A tap on my shoulder.

I turned.

Smack--Jill's sharp, small fist greeting my lips.

I tripped backwards, nearly fell, but something about Jill's hair caused me to find my footing, to want this fight more than any fight I'd ever been in. Usually, I'd just give up at this point, but Jill's hair, up close ... it looked ridiculous. She'd gotten a perm recently, an all-new type of "do" for her, and her curls sprouted upward in a Ronald McDonald afro.

Her bright-red curls flared in the October afternoon sun, and I saw her snarl, her small, slender fingers flexing to invite me once again into her wheelhouse.

"Come on, Bob!" Jill hissed, then spat on me. "Let's finish this. I'll bury you right here. Right in front of my daughter."

I swam in, grasping for that clown hair, determined to rip it out of her skull and make her eat it.

Jill ducked, torqued; I gasped as her small fist found my breadbasket.

I fell to my knees in the runway dirt, glanced around. We had an audience. The other mother and nanny and all the children had formed a circle around Jill and me. The children were cheering.

"Come on, Miss Cafferty. Beat him up!"

"Kick the bad kidnapper in the face again!"

Still on my knees, I seized a handful of dirt and then brought my hand forward.

Jill lifted her knee, turned her hips, and the inside of her foot obliterated my fist, causing the dirt to pelt my eyes, cloud in my face and mouth.

Of all the luck. The bitch had caused my weapon to discharge. I couldn't see.

And some of the dirt had entered my nose and mouth, I was choking on it.

"Oh, so you want to resort to throwing dirt, now?" Jill croaked.

A blow to my temple

I fell onto my side.

A shot to the ribs. Her foot. Another.

"Yay! Miss Cafferty!" one of the children cried.

Opening my eyes, I tried to see past the tearing bluriness, the blood, the snot. I tried to get up.

Jill's foot found my face again--a perfect shot, her dirty, pink heel punishing my chin, her moist arch conforming to and socking my nose, her clenched toes poking my eyes.

From the swing's runway of dirt, I looked up at the stars, although it was still day.

Then--

Thud.

Jill dropped her knees down onto my chest, those expensive jeans yet to be soiled, as she then used my sternum as a platform to punish me further with those small, hard fists.

Uhh.

Uhh.

Uhh.

Uhh.

"How do you like that, Bob?"

Thunk.

"A final beating?"

Th-wunk!

"And then I bury you."

Her fingers found my throat, the red-painted fingernails of her other hand clawed at my lips.

"God, you're disgusting, Bob--even by homeless standards!"

And I then realized what she was doing, but I couldn't lift my head, couldn't get her off.

Jill's fingertips won the battle with my lips and she pried my mouth open so wide my jaw made a snapping sound as if she'd ripped the hinge right from my battered skull. She shoved a handful of dirt into my mouth.

I choked.

"How's that?" she taunted and slapped my face. "Huh?"

"Uh-wuh-wuh-[cough]."

"Sure, you can have some more," Jill said, putting words, and then more dirt, into my mouth.

Couldn't breathe. Couldn't gag.

Mercifully, Jill got off of me, and padded away across the lawn.

I turned my head to the side and followed her through a gap in the crowd. She'd grabbed something from the nearby sandbox and was now returning.

I coughed and started to lift my head.

"Not so fast," Jill roared and stomped her heel down on my face.

My head sank back down to the dirt runway under the swing.

She had a toy shovel and she was digging into the runway around my head, dumping each shovelful onto my chest ... my face.

The others just watched, doing nothing to save me, and I regretted not telling Dave Glassman where I planned on traipsing to today.

Jill dumped another scoop of dirt on my face, another on my chest, a token scoop on my crotch, which she then tamped down with her foot.

I lay there, half-buried, my anger dissipating into the ether--the first sign of death.

I couldn't lift my arms ... not even a finger ... as Jill patted down the dirt on my chest.

She tossed another scoop over my face, and my head was wholly buried.

"Hold on," I heard her say. "I want you to see this." And she scooped a little of the dirt away from my eyes so I could watch.

Jill flexed her toes just above my face, giving me a final look at her pink-soled toes, a glimpse of her freckled ankle just below the rolled-up cuff of her blue jeans. Then, she stepped on the mound of dirt covering my face and posed for the small circle of spectators, and perhaps a few construction workers peering through the fence.

"Feet stink, huh? she said.

THE END

[spyki]

I always hate when these fantastic stories end.

[jaym]

Eddie, you produced another epic tale, and I'm glad that I was along for the ride. Jill is one of the best characters I've ever seen written in fetish literature. She was truly an powerful woman and made me think of some the women of Irish descent I've known in my life! You deserve a loud round of applause for you efforts. The only, tiny little thing I was hoping for at the end, was to have Jill use nothing but her feet to suffocate Bob. She seemed strong enough that her pungent feet could have cut closed his air off by clamping his nose shut with her toes, while her soles covered his mouth. However, I loved it all!

[Eddie08]

Eddie, you produced another epic tale, and I'm glad that I was along for the ride. Jill is one of the best characters I've ever seen written in fetish literature. She was truly an powerful woman and made me think of some the women of Irish descent I've known in my life! You deserve a loud round of applause for you efforts. The only, tiny little thing I was hoping for at the end, was to have Jill use nothing but her feet to suffocate Bob. She seemed strong enough that her pungent feet could have cut closed his air off by clamping his nose shut with her toes, while her soles covered his mouth. However, I loved it all!

Well, Jaym, if you know this kind of woman as you say, then you know how stubborn they can be when it comes to taking direction. As author and director I had planned to end the story just as you described, but Jill, stubborn as a mule, refused and instead decided to stuff dirt in Bob's mouth, then face-stand him with the entire playground watching. She felt she'd already done the foot suffocation thing and wanted to end the story with a public burial, which is close enough (only difference is the layer of packed soil). Let neither of us question her decision or else! Seriously, thanks to all who followed along. It's fun to write these tales on occasion, and I enjoy the variety of fine stories by other authors on the site as well. Anyway, hope you enjoyed my story. P.S. I'm still waiting for Mr. John Blaze to write the sequel to The Story of His Senior Year starring Miss Fauvreau. Perhaps the protagonist escapes from prison or is paroled? :eyebrows:

[abdel100]

Great ending. Fantastic story.

[mephistofele2]

epic end ! :)
do you have intention to write another story soon ??

[Eddie08]

Hi Mephisto,
I have no plans to write another story like this anytime soon. But if you are dying for similar work from this author and haven't checked it out yet, try Exit Sandman. http://www.mistressdestiny.com/forums/showthread.php?t=97379&highlight=Exit+Sandman

[iceblock]

Thanks Eddie, and a story completed too! Now that's a rarity for any forum, really enjoyed it mate.

[John Blaze]

I thought it was a great ending.

I enjoy the variety of fine stories by other authors on the site as well. Anyway, hope you enjoyed my story. P.S. I'm still waiting for Mr. John Blaze to write the sequel to The Story of His Senior Year starring Miss Fauvreau. Perhaps the protagonist escapes from prison or is paroled? :eyebrows:

LOL! Now that would REALLY be a cruel world... after all that happened to him - to get out of jail and sink even further! I don't even know if I'm that sadistic!