Bill Silvers wants a rematch

The tavern door creaked open, and a familiar face walked into the parlor. It was Bill Silvers. His chestnut brown eyes seemed a little worn from behind his thin black glasses and was face looked a little harder since she last saw him.

"Oh my." Michelle said to him, "If it isn't little sweet tooth."

"Sweet tooth?" Bill asked calmly, his face betraying nothing.

"Yeah," Michelle spun around and stuck her bum out at him. "For taking a bite out of the sugar!"

Bill smiled faintly as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm glad to see you're taking it so well. I hope there's no hard feelings."

Bill was different this time around, she could tell. He was humbled by her, and now he was taking her seriously. Before, he couldn't take his eyes off her body and ran off his mouth. But now he looked at her differently and spoke only politely. She wasn't 'The Virgin Vixen Knifethrower' to him anymore. She was 'The Enemy', and all the ferocity that was absent from their last match now filled the distance between them.

Pushing his glasses up again, Bill tossed the entry fee onto the table, letting the coins scatter everywhere. Never breaking eyecontact with her, he said to Michelle, "Whenever you're ready."

"Losers first?" Michelle taunted him, hoping it would make him lose focus.

"The honor is all yours." He replied coldly.

She was the first to break eyecontact. Something about the intensity in his eyes unsettled her and further added to the sinking feeling that today was simply not her day. She stood along the throwing line and prepared to make her attempt.

Hoping to overcome her nervousness, Michelle let her knives fly in quick succession. A 23, a 24 and a 24.

Seventy-one points! Michelle blew out a sigh of relief and bowed to the calling crowd. That was her highest score all day. All week, actually. Even if she lost - and with a score like that it was next to impossible - all she would have to do is give the shorty a handjob.

The young woman turned to Bill with a cocky smile, beckoning him forward, and he responded by nodding his head. He picked up his three knives and walked to the throwing line. Toeing the white paint on the floor indicating the threshold, he watched the board spin. Michelle could see the man stare intently at the circle, counting the revolutions, noting the jitters, and making a mental note of the 'sweet spots', and she still felt confident enough about her score. But then something unexpected happened.

Bill Silvers took off his glasses.

It all happened so fast. His arms shot forward, blurring in Michelle's line-of-sight, and retracted. Each time a knife launched from the palm of his hand. Once. Twice. Three times. And each time, the knife landed on a 25. When it was over, less than five seconds had passed and Bill's knives formed a perfect triangle on the throwing board.

Seventy-five. A full score.

To say the crowd cheered would be like saying an earthquake shook. The walls vibrated from their throaty voices and the ground tremored from the stomping of their boots.

Bill Silvers had won. And he had done it in the most triumphant way imaginable. Her only consolation was that, ironically, she only had to give him a consolation handjob.