There were over a dozen people (impossible to count the Anthropoles at first glance) packed into the Naibun Lounge, a small room with large-screen TVs on the left and right walls. Different music was playing in here than outside, an extended loop of sexy drum ‘n’ bass. It was much darker and a little quieter. Noise and light erupted any time someone slipped through the doorway.
People stood shoulder to shoulder, holding drinks, carrying Anthropoles, all fixated on the two seated women in the middle. Janine tried to peek over the onlookers impenetrably circling the nucleus of entertainment in here. All her excuse-me‘s and polite laughter fell on insensible ears, until she and Shaun simply stepped over to a TV.
The images on display were frequently blurry or jerky and streaked with rapid motion. They were taken by a man sitting in front of the Cowgirls, wielding the bullet cam. This little device was great for detailed close-ups and penetration, but its image was easily distorted with clumsy movement. The cameraman didn’t realize that his lunges and swipes for effect were compromising the display. He wasn’t a real cameraman, just some inept man the Cowgirls let tag along, so excited to be there he waived his right to payment for services rendered.
On either side of him were the Fairview Cowgirls, two voluptuous women in fanciful Old West costumes that revealed as much as they covered. Opal was done up in red satin and black lace, modeled after a saloon showgirl. Curly auburn hair spilled over her satin headband, decorated in rubies and an ostrich feather, and flowed down her bare shoulders to her bustier. Her partner, Candy, wore a cowboy hat, vest, and chaps made from black-and-white cowhide. Each of these women were of generous proportions, and each of them flaunted exceptionally large breasts framed in wide décolletage. They were perched on two little wooden stools, perhaps to emphasize their considerable dimensions. Candy grinned cheerily at her audience, her sandy bob shimmying beneath her hat, while Opal smirked and lounged in the rôle of a luxurious sybarite, limp fingers barely holding a martini glass.
Their cameraman kept switching his camera between the two women, focusing on one and then closing up on another. Tiny men were stuck between their boobs, either singly or in pairs. So large and fat were their breasts, two men could be inserted at enough distance and never come into contact with each other; indeed, there was no cause for them to even be aware of each other.
These were the Cowgirl’s rides: tiny people were stuck in their cleavage, and then they’d jiggle and heave their enormous breasts. It was quite a sight even for a normally sized person, but to an Anthropole, it was wilder than any earthquake or roller coaster. Their arms flailed, their heads snapped back and forth. They were absolutely helpless but to follow every last motion of these women. Candy was prone to giggles, and so her breasts would bounce and jump, and the tiny person between them would get gently knocked around by her rising cleavage or else shudder with the laughter thundering around him.
Opal, on the other hand, twisted languidly with sumptuous motions, moaning softly and licking her lips at the little men pinned between her abundant mammaries. Occasionally she would spill some fluid from her martini glass, which was revealed to be baby oil, all across her décolletage. Her breasts became glossy and slick, laced with thin reflections of the lights and TVs in the private lounge, and her tiny man would slowly recede within her bosom. His desperate clawing and scrabbling to stay up only lubricated more of his body, and the small crowd raised a cheer as he gradually sank within and disappeared. Rather than tumbling to the ground or falling to her lap, of course, the customer would simply descend between Opal’s ample breasts until he landed within her bustier. She was always careful to extract the little man before he suffocated.
The Cowgirls’ rides cost $50 for five minutes of vigorous, sensual activity, and it was known they provided private, custom sessions for a bit more than that. Customers were given a small slip of paper with a code, redeemable on the Fairview Cowgirls website for a video file of their adventure, at no extra cost. The videos, as noted, were pretty crappy, what with the overly enthusiastic cameraman slowly getting drunk throughout the night, but the clear shots were remarkable. The TVs were a wide plane of flesh, with only a seam of cleavage to break it up, plus the amazed and delirious expressions of tiny men whipping past the lens.
Janine found herself transfixed by the images on the TV and shook her head to reel her attention back in. She cupped her boyfriend very near her cheek. “Are you sure you don’t want to? It looks like fun.”
“Not really… not really interested in that.” Shaun’s eyes were fixed on her cheekbone.
“Look at that little guy, though. Rocking back and forth. Wow, she’s really huge.” She laughed a little too hard. “He could get lost in there!”
“He just pops right out the bottom. Opal’s extremely careful. There have been no accidents in their career.”
She arched an eyebrow. “How do you know that?” She raised him to her mouth, and though he tried to push against her, she pressed her highly sensitive upper lip to his chest. Through his costume, through his shirt, even she could feel his microscopic heart hammering away. She pulled him back and gently smiled upon him. “Shaun, I know you’re into big tits. I’ve known this since I met you. I don’t mind tossing some money at local performers if you want to experience this, just for tonight. It looks amazing!”
His expression darkened. “Lover, it’s really awkward to keep insisting on my answer. It’s like you’re trying to force me into her tits.”
Candy called out, “Hey, does your little guy want a ride?” Janine looked up: the light crowd had parted so the plump gunslinger could flag them down. “Last ride of the night! I’ll let ‘im go $40 for ten minutes, as rough or gentle as he wants. ” She scooped both forearms under her copious breasts and bobbled them for the couple. Opal glanced over and smiled, toweling the oil out of her bosom.
“Shaun! She’s giving you a deal!” Janine grinned and nodded at him, almost leering.
He visibly slumped in her palm, looking like a deflated white balloon. “Please, Janine, knock this off. I don’t want to ride in her tits, I don’t want a camera shoved in my face, I don’t want a roomful of Normies gawking at me, and holy fuck, I don’t know why you’re foisting me off on another woman.” His tiny dots-for-eyes bored into hers.
“Foisting…” She gasped quietly. “Goddamn you, Shaun. I just thought it’d be fun.” She clapped him roughly to her own chest, thanked Candy for her generosity, then hustled on out of the Naibun Lounge and back to the bar for another drink. Shaun’s Scotch dropper was pinned beside him, but not in such a way that he could access it. Holding her wine left-handedly, she took a good pull and let it rest and dilute in her mouth for several moments. Within her right palm, Shaun lay still.
“Hey, uh, everything okay here?” a man’s voice squeaked.
Janine pursed her lips and snorted. Now? Seriously? Without looking, she tossed out a flat yeah, thanks, I’m good.
“Glad to hear it! I just wanted to make sure everyone’s having a good time.” In the back of the pleasant tone was the hint of intention.
She looked down: an older Tiny in a green wool suit was leaning against a rocks tumbler. His eyes were bright and his smile was sharp. His black hair, graying at the temples, was tidily slicked across his scalp, in grooves too fine for her to track. His suit was trimmed pretty closely to his fine form, with greater accuracy and detail than she’d ever seen, finished with a pair of meticulously crafted, oxblood Taka boots.
Janine blinked, and blinked again. This Tiny was money. What was he doing wandering around—unassisted, unattended—on the bar?
She nodded slightly, knowing smaller gestures meant more to smaller people. “Yeah, I’m just…” She waggled her glass. “Having a drink, you know. Taking a little time-out, cooling down.”
“Did something happen?”
This man was persistent. Janine wondered if this was going somewhere. “It’s nothing. Really! It was just a hot exchange of views. Not even a disagreement, just a misunderstanding, I think.”
“Are you hurt?”
She raised her eyes and reared slightly. “What? No. Oh, this?” He’d nodded at her hand over her heart. She pretended to scratch herself without moving her palm. “It’s a nervous reflex when I’m stressed. It’s calming to touch my heart.” Her laughter was weak even to herself. “Is there something I can help you with?”
He laughed. It sounded louder than it should have, coming from a dapper little fellow. “Not unless you’re an accountant with flexible morality. Would it be appropriate to make introductions, now?” When Janine nodded, he raised both his hands to her, palms outward. “My name’s Izanagi, I’m delighted to meet you.”
She set down her drink and extended her left index finger slowly toward him. “Janine, Janine Galvan. It’s my pleasure.” It did not escape her notice that the bartender was keeping an eye on her.
He clasped his palms to her fingertip and raised and lowered it twice. “And is it appropriate to meet your boyfriend?”
Her mouth opened and closed. “Uh… what tells you I have a boyfriend?” As she stammered, she felt guilt flow like cool water over her shoulders and back.
“It looks to me like you’re right-handed, judging by how you handle that glass and how the hand on your chest twitched when I offered to greet you.” He tilted his head and never lost his gleaming grin. “And my lanyard is running down your neck to your palm, so I suspect you’re holding something a little more precious than an eyedropper of my booze.”
“Your…” Janine sat upright on her stool. “You work here?”
He laughed musically. “Timimoto is my baby, Ms. Janine. I’m so delighted you could make it out for the Halloween celebration. Is your man enjoying himself as well?”
The colorful lights hid her embarrassment. Carefully she peeled her hand from her chest, letting Shaun rest on her palm as she brought him to the bar top. He recovered himself well, rolling to a kneel, then climbing off her palm as though he typically entered a room this way. “Shaun Chastain. It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Yoshimoto.”
Izanagi looked surprised for a moment, then laughed and shook Shaun’s hand. “It seems my reputation precedes me.” He grinned and shrugged at Janine. “I had desired to play it low-key in this town. No advertisements, strictly word-of-mouth. I wanted my baby to grow organically.”
Shaun waved deferentially. “I’m sorry, you’re very good at keeping things quiet. It happens to be my job to know things. As soon as your club opened, I researched as much as I could about it and you, entirely out of curiosity.”
“Shaun, you knew about this place?” Janine leaned over to address him to his face. “Why didn’t you ever mention you wanted to go here?”
He laughed with a little embarrassment, glancing at Izanagi. “I’m not very social. My own ‘Izanami’ would like to go out more often than I’m comfortable with. I’m afraid I hold her back.” Janine had forgotten to retract her open hand when she released Shaun. Standing by the webbing of her thumb and forefinger, he rubbed the pad of her thumb and looked up at her with some warmth, some sadness. “As it happened, we were quarreling about the Cowgirls, and that’s how I earned my reprimand. They’re a fantastic act and everyone here was enjoying them, but I’m just can’t participate in public displays like that.” He shuddered for emphasis.
The owner of Timimoto crossed his arms and rested one bent finger upon his lips. Janine could just pick out the cuffs of a jaunty white-and-lemon plaid shirt under his jacket. As she stared at Izanagi’s painstaking outfit, so did he focus upon her little boyfriend in the rumpled white Tyvek suit. “I entirely understand. Mr. Chastain. Personally, I would have liked to retain a little more decorum about my grounds, but you know.” He spread his arms and shrugged. “Give the people what they want. Isn’t that right?”
Even through the baggy HazMat suit, it was apparent that Shaun’s entire body tensed up. He looked around the barroom, searching for something around the ceiling. “I guess you run a tight ship, here, Mr. Yoshimoto.”
Izanagi nodded. “I couldn’t afford an incident like what happened at Club Titan. By the look on your face, I surmise you were there for that. I apologize if I violated a sensitivity. I understand it was quite a catastrophe.”
“It shouldn’t have happened at all. Just more evidence of the misomicrotic attitude endemic to the system.” Shaun loosened up and breathed deeply. “I’m confident you won’t have any problems: everything around here screams a deep, personal investment in Statute 270.”
Izanagi laughed. “You’re a remarkable man, Mr. Chastain. Personal reservations notwithstanding, I would be gratified to see you around here more often.” He offered to front the couple another round of drinks then, when they demurred, guaranteed them a raincheck. “Eduardo, make note of their faces,” he called up to the bartender. “Next time they drop by, it’s on me.” Eduardo nodded at Izanagi and winked at Janine. Shaun made note of him too: he was tall, muscular, bald with a full beard. He didn’t look like he came from any background that pulled Eduardo from its cultural reserves, but one never knew.
The proprietor left them to their evening, shaking Shaun’s hand and bowing to Janine; she grinned and stroked the back of his blazer. Despite feeling vaguely like a third wheel, she grinned at Shaun. “What an unusual evening. First the band, and now this. It’s too bad you don’t want to go out more, big guy: you add a certain magic to the night.” She rested her right hand on the bar, still drinking with her left. “I’m not settled with what’s going on between us, Shaun. You said some nice things in front of him, but I don’t know what that blowup was about, before.”
Shaun stepped to the back of her hand, glowing red and green and yellow and blue in the darkness. He raised his arms and lightly rested his palms upon the tendon of her index finger. “I didn’t want to be stuffed down a strange woman’s tits. Especially for the titillation of a group of drunk and horny strangers. I don’t know why you don’t get that.”
She sighed with exasperation. “I get that, I understand what you’re saying, but I know you love large breasts. I just thought that would’ve been a great opportunity to enjoy something like that. I mean, I can’t really−”
“Shut it, stop right there.” Shaun stared up at her. “Don’t you finish that fucking sentence. You’re beautiful and you’re all I want, and that’s it. Sure, I look around and find other women attractive, but that doesn’t mean I want to act on it. I know you find other Anthropoles hot, but I don’t push you on them.” She denied she had any such thoughts, but when he pointed out that he had been resting directly over her heart when Izanagi introduced himself to her, she looked down, then away. He quietly rubbed the back of her hand with his two minuscule hands, fingers spread and trickling over her pores.
“I wouldn’t be jealous if you wanted to ride one of the Cowgirls, you know.”
“I know that. That’s not the point.” He was studying her skin, slowly moving his hands. Everything about him was studious and contemplative, in direct contrast to the booming music around them. “Of course it’s sexy. They have amazing, impossible, exaggerated bodies. Of course I’d love to be surrounded by all that, see what it’s like. And yeah, I’m definitely going to think about that on my own and when I’m with you.
“It’s still a kind of intimacy, to be on that part of a woman’s body. Crawling over her boobs, squirming between her thighs, even just kissing her. I can’t separate that kind of physical fun from intimacy. Some people can, I can’t. It creeps me out to think of actually doing that with anyone who isn’t you.”
Janine lifted her hand slightly and cupped it around her boyfriend, giving him a gentle hug. She rubbed her thumb over his hood and tugged it off his head. “Do you want to check out Bobbing for Tinies, before we see your band?”
“You give me another shot of Scotch and I’ll even participate.”
“You don’t have to do that, not for me.”
“No, really. I need to loosen up and have some more fun when I’m out with my favorite woman.” He smiled brightly up at her. “I just wish Izanagi wouldn’t use that term, even if it’s what the people want.”
She smiled back and gave him his drink. “Hey, what was that you called me with him? Was that some kind of Japanese word for a housewife or something?”
He pointed at his cheeks, swollen with Scotch, and made her wait until he slowly swallowed his drink. “It’s from an ancient Shinto myth, Izanagi and Izanami. They created lands and gods together. There are a few parallel notes to the Greek myths involving Persephone and Orpheus but they’re not directly…” He sighed and laughed at himself. “You have to cut me off when I geek out like that. I was just asking if he was married. I hope I wasn’t rude, now that I think about it.”
“Why would that be rude?”
“Well, that obviously wasn’t his real name.” He noted the incomprehension in her expression. “Obvious to Anthropoles, I mean. That was the name he chose for himself when he was rehabilitated. It means ‘he who invites.’ Shit, now I feel bad.”
“I’m sure he sensed you didn’t have any ill intent,” she told him. “Hey, I know what’ll take your mind out of thinking too hard.” She rubbed him gently against her chest and carried him back to the Naibun Lounge for the games.
The lights were raised for this event, the walls crawling with large blobs of orange and pink from projectors. The crowd was diffuse, activity going on everywhere: throughout the room, more tiny men were suspended by cords from the ceiling, hanging around face-height to the Normies. Anyone could kiss them, lick them, blow them around, any activity that didn’t involve their hands. Despite increasing integration with Anthropoles in society, there were plenty of people who hadn’t had the opportunity to interact with them in person and for whom the diminutive population were still an exotic novelty. Party games like this played up to Normie curiosity, while no one seemed curious as to what the teeny recipients thought of it all.
Other people crowded around a large punch bowl on a tall table. In a pond of bubbly red drink, several trifling men treaded and paddled around, waving at the over-sized onlookers. A bouncer collected $5 bills as women stepped up, held their hair back, and leaned over to attempt to snatch a little man up between her lips. The bouncer kept an eagle eye on the event, anticipating anyone trying to get away with anything injurious: the little men wore harnesses with long plastic cords for the bouncer to tug, in the event of inappropriate engagement.
Janine peered at the diminutive figures. “Are they wearing little scuba suits?”
Shaun, riding in her palm before her, laughed. “I’m guessing the punch is spiked. If they swam in that kind of booze for too long, it’d kill them. You too, you know, if you soaked in a bathtub full of vodka.”
They watched the action in the punch bowl. It seemed to be good humor, in fact: the tiny men swam around, waving for new takers. Sometimes the men and women were shy about it, asking each other “is this okay?”, then elbowing each other to give it a try. One man, egged on by his buddies, leaned over and hunted around, as though picking a likely target.
“He looks like an idiot, with his mouth hanging open like that,” said Shaun. One of the man’s buddies overheard, laughed, and informed his friend of his appearance. The player took a lunge, but the little man dived swiftly and disappeared. People around him called out “one!” then “two!” and “three!” as he used up his remaining turns without success.
Mopping his face with a provided towel, he said, “Five bucks for all the wop you can drink? Still a bargain.”
Shaun and Janine looked at each other. “That cannot be hygienic,” she groaned. She turned away to watch people trying their luck with the suspended tiny people. A fashionable woman with long black hair and a bright red streak was taunting a tiny man in a suit, good naturedly. She would lean in close to him as he rotated slowly through empty space, and she appeared to be having a conversation with him. She asked him a question, he smiled and nodded, and she made as if to kiss him. Right before contact, however, she swung her head and her long black hair swung up to wrap around him. She jerked her head back, her hair unraveled, and he lurched away through the air. When he drifted back toward her, she puckered up and his head bumped against her kiss. They laughed, staring into each others’ eyes.
Another woman had brought her own tiny man into the club, and she held him up on the mostly steady platform of her palm to speak to one of the hanging men, a guy dressed as a soldier.
“Go on, talk to him!” she said.
Her tiny man looked at the suspended soldier, then back at the beaming woman. “What are we supposed to talk about?” The soldier looked at her too.
The woman’s head wobbled on her shoulders. “Uh, you know. Tiny-guy stuff! Like, tiny-guy news and stuff like that. You can use your tiny-guy language if you want.” She hunched in very close to the two Anthropoles, eyes wide, grinning with every tooth in her head.
The little man in her hand shook his head and apologized. “Don’t worry about it,” the soldier replied. “Misomicrotes, right? I don’t know where they get this stuff from.”
“I know she means well, but it’s not like she’s ever asked me anything about myself.”
“Were you born here?”
“Yeah, usual story. Mom’s a Normie, dad insisted on surrendering me to the state. You?”
“I’m a rescued 900,” he said, shrugging. “Well, ‘rescued’. You know.”
The man in the hand gaped. “Aw, fuck, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“It’s all right. Just don’t tell me how fluent I am.” They laughed about this, but the woman holding the little man couldn’t follow their conversation and found it less cute than she’d imagine it would be. She wrapped her fist around her man as he protested and pounded on her thumb.
“Tell your little friend ‘bye’,” she said, already turning to leave.
Still another woman focused on a muscular little man in swim trunks. Taller than average, she had to crouch and bend as though performing the Limbo to get underneath him: she was excitedly flickering her tongue at his bare feet. He laughed and kicked at her long, broad tongue, and she lapped at him, sometimes sticking her tongue out for him to stand on, which he would do unsteadily. “This is thrilling,” she gasped.
“I’m starting to feel irrelevant,” said her boyfriend, folding his arms and looking very dark indeed.
A man nearby toasted his Musculum IPA at him. “No shit. Why aren’t there any Tiny women for us to play with?”
The boyfriend started at the thought of it. “What would you do with a Tiny woman?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen one. I’d think of something.”
“Is that something you’re into? Tiny women?”
The man with the beer paused and shrugged. “Dunno. I’d have to see one.”
The boyfriend nodded at his long and lanky girlfriend. “They look like that, but much smaller.”
The man with the beer rolled his eyes and stalked off. The boyfriend asked his girlfriend if she was about done. She barked “gimme a minute” between guffawing and rising up to take the tiny man entirely into her wide, gaping mouth. The bouncer kept an eye on her, too.
Janine also wondered why there weren’t more Tiny women out in public. When she asked Shaun about this, however, he became upset and withdrawn. She turned him away from the suspended people and back to the punch bowl. A woman stumbled behind her, nudging into her shoulder blades for a moment. “Sorry,” she said quietly, focusing on the swimmers. Janine glared at her, and the bouncer raised his chin at Janine, as if sniffing trouble.
“Can I go up next,” said the drunk woman, fidgeting with her rings.
The bouncer said, “Five bucks,” and she dug a crumpled bill out of her clutch. He nodded at a woman face-down in the bowl. “You’re up after her.” The woman in the bowl had a tremendous ‘fro that one of her friends had to hoist out of the punch. The woman was chasing a little man around, making kissy noises and paying no attention to the other Anthropoles in the boozy pond. She wrapped her full lips around his head and displayed him to the cheering onlookers: his body stuck out of her mouth like a tongue, but with flailing arms and legs. The bouncer gave her a moment, then gently tugged on the Tiny’s cord and hauled him back into the punch bowl. “You’re up,” he told the drunk woman.
She stepped up, staggered, and bumped into Janine’s arm. Between them, below the rim of the bowl and out of the bouncer’s sight, her fist jogged Janine’s elbow, flinging Shaun into the center of the drink. The woman hissed, “You’re mine!” She opened her jaws wide and thrust her face upon him. Shaun had barely begun to tread before the huge mouth descended upon him, her strong lips sealing around his thighs. He shouted and swore, hammering at the ecstatic tongue beneath him, as the punch surged around his body and flowed down her cavernous throat.
“Shaun!” Janine shrieked. “You bitch!” Her hand shot out and seized the other woman’s hair.
“Oh, no you don’t!” The bouncer, who hadn’t seen the drunk dive on Shaun, rounded her swiftly and bear-hugged Janine, pulling her toward the door. The onlookers shouted at him, but between the confusion of all their voices and how much they’d had to drink, to say nothing of the music in these close quarters, none of them got their point across.
But the woman’s hair came off in Janine’s grasp. She flung the wig into the bouncer’s face, just over her shoulder, slopping his eyes in punch and a dozen people’s saliva. He cursed in surprise and released her, fell back mopping at his face with his t-shirt.
Janine pushed him backward, then faced the drunk woman, grinning with two little white Tyvek legs kicking furiously. “Hey, Shavonda!” she shouted, and when the woman glanced at her in surprise, Janine drove a sharp row of second-knuckles on her right fist deep into her larynx. Shavonda gagged and opened her mouth to gasp for breath. Janine swiftly fished her boyfriend out of her mouth, then wrapped her fingers in the woman’s actual hair and drove her head downward, into her rising knee. Shavonda collapsed to the floor, covering her face and coughing, while the other club-goers gaped like fish.
Janine shrieked, “Stay the fuck away from us, you drunk ass!” and kicked the prone woman a couple times in the stomach and ribs. The only footgear she owned that matched her HazMat suit were a pair of white steel-toe Docs, which served another lovely purpose, it turned out. When the bouncer recovered himself and went after Janine, several women and men barricaded her from him and explained what had occurred.
“I think you’d better leave, all the same,” said the bouncer, holding the door open for the couple. He got no argument from them: Janine tore open her HazMat suit and stuffed Shaun into her bra, going into battle-mode to shoulder her way through the late-night revelers. With dismay she noted Cry Princess Start! had only just begun their set. She tucked her chin and tugged on her bra to ask Shaun what to do, but he only gestured emphatically with his arm that he wanted to get the fuck out of the building. When she burst from the club onto the sidewalk, people nearby jerked defensively and stared, watching her run to her car.
Locked inside her vehicle, Janine tugged Shaun free of his suit and clasped him to her cheek, trying to control her breathing while sobbing his name. “Fucking Shavonda,” he muttered. “She’s a goddamned curse.”
“I thought she was arrested,” she said, though it sounded like “VHRRM MRROUGH VHRRM HURRUGHA” when she mashed him into her face. “Should we tell Izanagi about her?”
Shaun laughed dryly. “I’m sure he already knows, by now. He’s probably taking action as we speak. Did you punch her?”
“In the fucking throat.” Janine carefully draped Shaun between her thighs and started up the car. “What’s her deal with you, anyway? Did you two used to date?”
Shaun’s body shook as though she’d touched a 9-volt to his feet. “Never! I’ve never gone out with her! I don’t know what her problem is. She just saw me around and has been fixating on me for years.” He folded his arms and looked up at the driver-side window. “You see why I don’t want to go out?”
She snort-laughed, and then her face fell. “I’m so sorry we missed out on Cry Princess Start! I don’t think Izanagi would’ve booted us out of the club if we’d stayed. Do you want to go back?”
Shaun looked up at his girlfriend, looming over him. Her torn HazMat suit exposed her tank top and bra, as well as her hard breathing. When he closed his eyes, he saw Shavonda’s crazed, leering face descend upon him like a collapsing building. He saw the club lights go out as her lips locked around his legs. He saw her tongue throbbing, accosting him no matter how he fought back, and he saw the fleshy curtains of her throat flexing, closing, opening inches in front of him.
So he stared up at Janine without blinking. He rocked back and forth between her legs as she took the corners; on the straightaways he lay in her valley and basked in her heat. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here,” he murmured. “I’m done with tonight.”