Written by J.B.Arthur
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Wednesday, 28 October 2009

Barton looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His hair looked great, clean-shaven, and with his favourite blue silk shirt on he was bound to pull a bird tonight . He thought he'd try that new snazzy wine bar that had just opened in town, Bar Chique. Barton lived for sex. Sex with strangers excited him.

At thirty-three he had notched up well over two hundred casual lays on his bed-post. The thrill of the chase, like a primitive hunter satisfying a base need was his raison d'etre, his whole purpose in life. He regularly went to the clinic to have himself checked. You could never be too careful these days, though if he caught anything it probably wouldn't stop him. He was insatiable. Fat girls, skinny girls, older, younger, pretty or plain, it made no odds to Barton. You don't look at the mantle-piece when you're poking the fire as his dad used to say when Barton was in his teens. He looked up to dad a lot then. Dad was a real man - twenty pints down at the Pheasant Inn, ex-rugby player, didn't take shit from nobody. He even grew weed after looking up uk420.com :)

It was probably dad's influence that made Barton the sex-maniac he was today. He was always encouraging his son to "play the field", "sow your wild oats", "give 'er one fer me" and all the other macho lingo that made men the men they were.

At the office the next day was the best. Barton would boast to Tommy in distribution, or Malcolm in accounting about his latest conquests, compare notes. Invariably no-one had bettered his record, and he let them know every lurid detail - what positions he used, how long for and how many times they did the dirty, whether she was good at oral sex and did she just lay there like a sack o' spuds.

He dabbed his neck with his favourite aftershave then switched off the bathroom light and walked into his bedroom. The Shag Pad. His jacket lay on the king-size bed. Silk sheets always impressed the girls. He had been given the bed by his dad - nice and solid iron head-board and the springs hardly squeaked at all when he was pounding away on it with some slag he had met two hours beforehand. He sidled over to the bedside cabinet, pulled open the drawer and checked to see how many condoms he had left - three in the multipack and one ribbed - plenty for if he struck lucky. He picked up his jacket and put it on.

"Meeeow!" exclaimed Buffy, his white and tortoiseshell cat as she brushed flirtatiously against his trouser-leg. She was purring loudly.

"Oh you want feeding do you, you little tart, eh?" Barton asked and she replied with another long meow, " Ok I'll give you some crunchies then, but it'll ruin your figure" and he picked her up to cuddle her, walking out of his bedroom and through to the kitchen. He put her down on the counter, opened the cupboard and pulled down the dry cat mix, shaking the cardboard container. Nearly out of them. He poured the crunchy pilchard flavoured little stars into her bowl. Buffy jumped down off the kitchen counter and started to munch away.

He checked that his wallet was in his back pocket, turned on a table lamp in the living room to deter burglars and exited through the front door, closing it behind him. Then he walked into town.

As he approached Bar Chique he could hear the bass-line of the music thumping away. The door was open with a bouncer either side of it and a few people were standing outside smoking. One habit Barton hadn't picked up.

"Three pound entry" one of the doorman said and Barton pulled out his wallet for the first time that evening. Inside it was heaving, full to the brim with young vibrant people. The place was very posh looking with a shiny chrome bar, red leather seats and bar stools, Art Deco mirrors behind the bar. Barton was impressed. He squashed his way through the thronging revellers and after five minutes had reached the front of the queue for drinks. There was an empty stool four foot from where he stood and he claimed it just before a red-faced man reached for it. Sitting on the stool he tried to catch the eye of the attractive barmaid.

" Mine's a large one!" he shouted over the music, "and now you know that I think I'll order a drink!"

"Very funny" the girl shouted back sarcastically, "What are you having?"

"Double Black Russian!"

Vodka, Kahlua and coke was his favourite tipple and it normally gave him the Dutch courage to start the smooth talk with a fine piece of ass. Swinging round on the stool he now had a chance to eye up the talent. Skantily dressed girls with legs up to their armpits. Tits out for the lads. He had a veritable Smorgasbord of muff to choose from here. He made eye contact with a skinny brunette with too much eyeshadow. She smiled coyly at him then turned away. He was about to get off the stool and make a move when a big bastard with crew cut hair put his arm around her and fondled her breast. Shit, she has a boyfriend. Barton necked the rest of his drink and ordered another.

Throughout the night he steadily got more sloshed, and with it, more lecherous - if that was possible. He danced his sexy 'dirty dancing' with a short stocky girl in a sequined top and white mini-skirt, but when he started trying it on with the smooth talk she told him that she was a lesbian. Bollocks! Lesbians don't dress like a slut he had shouted and she slapped him across the face. He didn't feel it. Then there was the freckled red-head with no tits, but she had a hairlip when he got up close and even he had to draw the line somewhere. So he went to the toilet and avoided her for the rest of the night after he came back out. After several more drinks and just as many failed attempts the club was starting to empty. Most of the formerly single girls had coupled off and only the dregs were left. Barton was just about ready to give up, thinking about heading home for a wank, when a chubby girl with green eyes and short cropped dark hair sauntered over to him.

"Hi handsome, fancy a dance?" she asked in a husky voice

That was fuckin easy, he thought, and ok she had a bit of a moustache but beggars can't be choosers and he had his beer goggles on now - now he would accept anything, even the hairlip, but here he was being chatted up himself. Bonus! She must be a right slag, definitely up for it! He didn't notice the blue powder she slipped into his drink.

They danced to a cheesy pop tune and then the lights turned up and it was the slow dance tune to finish the night off. Barton necked the rest of his drink and started a slow dance with the chubby girl. They held each other tight - she was a bit sweaty and when they started to tongue each other's tonsils he could smell a very strong odour of fish. But he didn't care … this was one detail he'd be sure to leave out in his tale telling tomorrow at the office.

"By the way, what's your name?" he asked

"Sheila" she replied

"I'm Barton. Fancy coming back to mine then?"

"Yer, I'm well horny!" she whispered in his ear. Again that smell of fish.

They ordered a taxi outside on his mobile phone.

Barton fumbled with his keys at the front door, and while he was trying to get the key in Sheila slipped her hand down his pants and stroked his cock. It stiffened and he grunted with pleasure as he opened the door.

"Welcome to my humble abode" he slurred, closing the door. He dragged her across the front room to the couch and they both fell onto it, snogging and caressing each other passionately the whole way. Buffy appeared, and as Sheila struggled to undo his belt, the cat jumped on top of them. Barton pushed his pet off but the moggy was insistent. Buffy jumped back on and started to lick Sheila's left ear.

"Piss off Buffy! Can't you see I'm busy?" Barton scolded as he deftly unfastened the girl's bra, but the cat was determined to get in the way.

"Let's go to your bedroom" insisted Sheila, "we can close the door so your cat can't disturb us"

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea" replied Barton. They both got up off the couch giggling, Sheila grabbing her handbag, and ran through to the Shag Pad, shutting the door quickly so that Buffy was left outside it.As they made their way to the bed, still snogging, Sheila slammed him roughly onto his back and straddled him. God she was strong he thought. And reeks of fish. I wonder if it's her fanny. No wonder Buffy is attracted to her. Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound as they say.

Sheila undressed him sensually, but left his socks on.

"I don't like feet" she explained. Then "Can I handcuff you? Would you like that? It really turns me on"

"What? Er…well…" he hesitated

"Have you never done it before? I can see it turns you on - look at your stiffy!"

"Well … go on then. Never tried it. You're not going to hurt me?"

"No, no. Far from it."

She pulled out a pair of handcuffs from her handbag, snapped one around his left wrist, wrapped it around the iron rail of the bedhead, then snapped the other cuff around his right wrist.

"There. Now hold on a second. I'm just going to have a bath"

"What?" Barton piped, "Hold on, let me out of these first! I don't want to be stuck here for half an hour while you do that"

"Ah, but I do want you to be. It adds to the thrill of it" said the girl as she walked into the bathroom. "Won't be long! I like it cold!" she shouted as she closed the door.

Shit, thought Barton, I hope she's not a nutter. He tried to pull free, but the headboard was sturdy and the handcuffs too strong. Probably police standard issue. Hey, maybe she is a copper, he thought, that's a definite turn on. He was fully erect now. In fact, come to think of it he had been since she groped him at the front door. Unusual. Well fair enough … she won't smell of fish after that bath. He could hear the running water filling up the bathtub. And Buffy was meowing and scratching at the door.

It was ten minutes later and he was starting to sober up. Thinking about it he wasn't very turned on at all about this situation he had gotton into. In fact he was getting slightly anxious and afraid. He could hear the girl sloshing about in the tub. How long would she leave him like this? Would she rob him? Kill him? No, don't be stupid, she's just one of these dominatrix types. A bit of bondage maybe. Maybe she had a whip! He was still hard. That was unusual in itself. Normally the person he was fucking had to be in the same room, preferably naked and in the same bed for him to keep a stiffy for this long.

That's when he heard the strange, eldritch noises coming from the other side of the bathroom door. A kind of guttural groaning and gruff mewling like a … a what? It reminded him of the sounds a dolphin makes, squeaky and vibrating. And there was a sound like leather being stretched. Something was wrong here.

"Are you … are you all right in there?" he shouted. No reply, but the noises became louder and more frequent. He could hear her breathing heavily, a kind of gurgling as though she had three pounds of catarrh in her chest. A bubbling, deep pitched and wet sound. Now he was starting to feel more than just apprehension. Now he was downright scared. The effect of the alcohol was wearing off and he was really regretting inviting this weird bitch back to his house. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Sheila! Sheila? What's going on in there? Answer me for christ's sake!"

She replied in an alien voice that sounded like a small motor was running inside her. A voice unlike anything he had heard before.

"Huungrrry!"

Panic started to set in. She didn't sound like a woman any more. Christ, she didn't even sound human.

"Let me out of these handcuffs and I'll make you something to eat" he shouted. Was he hell going to feed her, he was going to march her straight out of the front door as soon as she released him. If she released him.

"What the fuck are you doing in there?" he shouted, the fear in his voice unmistakeable.

"Preeeparrring!" came the reply in that same gruff voice.

Barton's hard-on was starting to become painful - this wasn't normal, wasn't normal at all. His heart was pounding, the beginnings of a migraine were coming on, but his manhood was throbbing as if it had a mind of its own. Now he heard a slushing squelching sound and could hear the plug being pulled out and the water draining out of the bath.

"Sheila! Sheila! Are you going to let me out of here or what?" he reasoned, although now he wasn't sure he wanted her to come out at all Wet, sloppy footsteps as she approached the door. Then it opened. He strained his head to look and saw …

the thing. His mouth gaped wide in horror. He tried to let out a scream but his vocal cords had frozen. His heart was trying to jump out of his throat. Sheila had transformed into something horrible. Her skin was now grey and mottled like that of a trout, and he could see light glinting off what looked like thousands of tiny scales which covered her whole body. She had webbed feet and hands with vicious claws at

the ends of her fingers, and, opening and closing while she breathed where her ribs should have been were what can only be described as gills. But that wasn't the worst. The worst part was her face. Her mouth now stretched across most of it, no lips, and below where her nose should have been the moustache had grown into long whiskers like those of a cat-fish. Her eyes were black and soul-less and had parted, separated until they were at the side of her head, just below the temples. The stench of fish was overpowering, and now he knew why. The fish monster opened its gaping maw and smiled with hundreds of tiny sharp teeth. The teeth of a shark.

Barton finally managed to scream as she squished and squelched toward the bed. She had the flannel from the bath in one of her webbed grey hands.

"No, no, get away from me!" he beseeched but she was on top of him before he could scream any more. He felt her slimy fat belly and slippery legs against his naked skin as she mounted him and grabbed his nose with one webbed hand and his jaw with the other. He battled with all his might to keep his mouth shut, his legs kicking uselessly behind her, but she was unnaturally strong and eventually his mouth was open and she was stuffing the flannel inside. He gagged, trying not to throw up as he would drown in his own bile.

" Must eat!" the monster insisted in that deep guttural voice and it dismounted him, starting toward the door. It could hear Buffy mewing from the other side. With its webbed left hand it opened the door, Buffy rushing straight into its right hand. Then Buffy was wailing and scratching but to no avail.

"Hungrrry" the thing said, then opened its eight inch wide mouth with those teeth, those horrible teeth, and crunched down around Buffy's head. Blood spurted out from the cat's neck as it twitched for a few seconds, then became lifeless in the creature's hands. Crunch crunch crunch. Within a minute the fish thing had devoured the cat entirely. It licked its lips.

"Yum yum" it growled, "must…reproduce…", turning to once again direct its emotionless gaze towards Barton.

His eyes were nearly bursting out of their sockets after what he had just witnessed, but still his penis stayed stiff.

"Viagra, hmmm, hmmm" the creature murmured to Barton, gazing blankly at his erection, "mussst reeeprroduce"

Barton tried to scream but the flannel was firmly wedged in his mouth and nothing but a slight whimper emerged through his nostrils. He thrashed about on the bed, trying desperately to break the handcuffs, but they were holding him strong without even a sign of breaking. He would break his wrists before he broke the handcuffs. The creature started to walk towards him, its webbed feet squishing on the floor. Barton fainted.

When he woke up he found the room was empty and the handcuffs were gone. So was the creature. Please let it be a horrible dream, he thought, but he could smell that disgusting fish smell all over him and there were little silver fish scales all over his midsection, the bed, his balls. His cock was no longer hard but there was a slimy dark green substance dripping off it, matted to his pubic hair.

Since that night Barton never boasted to his office pals about his one night stands, didn't go bar hopping looking for talent, and never ever ate fish again.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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