Mr. Crassle

You flush the toilet, stand, and pull your cotton panties up around your waist. When you open the door to the stall you are shocked to be greeted by the grinning face of Mr. Wood's tanned "friend". Mr. Crassle puts a hand up on the side of the stall and blocks your exit.

"Hello, Joy," he makes no effort to conceal his lecherous gaze.

"What are you doing in here?" You demand.

"I thought we might have a little talk," he says and takes a step towards you.

You try to push past him, but he holds you back and enters the stall. He closes the door and turns the bolt behind him.

"Now, now," he scolds. "I've known Ernie Wood for four decades, young lady. A fat loser like him would never score a broad like you."

"Let me out of here," you push against his chest.

He moves in closer, forcing you back against the side of the stall. You can smell his aftershave and the bitter stink of cigars. The bronzed skin of his face is mottled with tiny freckles or moles.

"What's your angle?" He asks. "Are you after his money?"

"No!" You fume.

"What then? Is he paying you by the hour?" He looks down at your cleavage. "That's it, isn't it? A hot little slut for hire."

"Fuck you," you hiss.

"Come on," he reaches back and pulls out his wallet, "be reasonable here, Joy."

He plucks a crisp 20 dollar bill from his wallet.

"What will it take for me to get some action? 20?" He takes out another 20. "40? You're a nice piece of ass, so name your price. I've got a lot more cash than Wood."

Mr. Crassle waves the money in your face.

"I tell you what, 60 bucks for a quick blowjob and we'll go our separate ways," he adds another bill to the stack. "Waddya say, sweetheart?"