I'm Not Fabio

Dear Reader: After you read this story, I hope you'll leave a rating and perhaps also post a comment about what you liked or disliked. Please check out my other stories at . I have posted a few dozen stories, including ones that are standalone and also ones in series format (each of whose installments can be read standalone too, if you're afraid of commitment, LOL). I strive to keep my stories fresh in various dimensions and to avoid repeating myself too much, so I hope you find something to enjoy - if one isn't to your liking, maybe another one will be! Note: All characters in this and my other stories are of legal age.

I'm Not Fabio

(He really isn't.)

"Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love." -- Don Adriano de Armado, Love's Labour's Lost

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Chapter 1

The middle-aged man browsed the shelves, killing time. With studied casualness he kept out of the line of sight of the only other customer, a younger woman. Both of them drifted through the dim rooms of the old, one-story building--a former family home, now a dusty, musty used bookstore on a main suburban street, its shelves packed with forgotten stories, the kind most locals seemed content to leave undisturbed. Within a few minutes she finished her selections, paid, and departed.

He waited fifteen seconds after the front door jingled before strolling to the cashier's desk, a thin volume of Shakespeare sonnets in hand. "Excuse me," he said to the proprietor, a woman closer to his own age, "I would like a little advice."

"I live to serve," she replied, looking up from his book and smiling helpfully. His gaze dipped briefly and almost involuntarily to the exposed curve of her bosom.

The white blouse seemed one size too small for her and was unbuttoned three down, the push-up bra beneath lifting her cleavage into view - an aspect of her overall look that suggested she wished to feel seen. By contrast, her skirt was muted in color and modest in its cut, a slightly frumpy plaid that didn't quite succeed in hiding the fullness of her hips or thighs. She wasn't quite plump, but did carry weight in the usual places for a woman her age - some of which places she opted to emphasize, while most of which she tried to downplay with this carefully chosen outfit, one that didn't quite achieve what she hoped it would. Her shoulder-length hair was a rich brown, a color she'd maintained since it began graying in her mid-thirties--a vanity she wasn't yet ready to let go.

He, by contrast, had dressed with casual precision: a fitted polo under a light blue blazer, gray trousers, and polished black shoes. His hair--medium-length, thinning, gray--was neatly combed back, and his tan hinted at affluence more than labor. He stood only three inches taller than her, which meant a good five inches shy of six feet, with an extra thirty pounds around the waist that he ignored the way men of his means often do. There was polish in his appearance and a salesman's charm in his posture--just enough to suggest he thought it would be sufficient to any purpose - such as today's.

"To serve? I like the sound of that," the tomcat purred, looking back up to her large brown eyes.

She seemed flustered by his response and gaze alike, and quickly continued, "if you're looking for more Shakespeare, just the other day I received an estate consignment that I haven't gone through yet, but I did notice a few of his works among the piles."

"No, no," the man replied, "the advice I want is a little more personal." He paused. When she didn't take the bait he added, "I'm looking for birthday presents for my wife and thought maybe I would include a romance novel as part of the package. So I wondered whether you might recommend something."

"Certainly," she said, and stepped out from behind the desk. "Romance is over here. Does she read a lot of that genre?" Her tone was considerably more relaxed than it had been only a moment earlier.

He followed her the forty steps to the annex, which at one time had been the garage of the building. "Definitely. And I'm really out of my depth with that."

"Do you know what she likes?" she asked reasonably.

"Oh, I'm not sure. Judging from the book covers, maybe a little on the steamy side. Heaving bosoms, ripped bodices? You know?" He sneaked another peek of her ample bosom then met her gaze and held it. "Maybe you can suggest one you like."

"Well, I don't know how well I can guess her tastes," she said. "I could suggest a few, and let you pick among them." She reached up and ran an index finger across the spines of several books, pulled one out, and handed it to him.

"What's it about?"

"If I remember correctly, she's a young college graduate who has taken a job with a public relations firm and receives an untoward offer from the boss. You did say steamy, correct?"

He gave a nearly inaudible snort--part derision, part amusement. "She's young, and plucky, and adventurous too, I suppose? A bit willful? Secret desires bubbling under the surface? So ... does she accept the boss's offer?"

"No. You wouldn't expect that, would you? And neither do most readers."

"Pity. So, does she meet someone more suitable than the boss?"

"Of course."

"But no Fabio on the cover, I see."

She chuckled. "Fabio Lanzoni? Contrary to legend, he's not literally on every romance cover." She laughed again, lightly, at her own understatement.

"Seems like it."

"I can understand why you might think so. He did excellent marketing. It's actually been some time since he was a model, though. Mostly a celebrity spokesperson by now."

"You know the business well."

"Oh," she said modestly, "I just read a lot."

"I'm sure. In this line of work, and all. So, is this book where your tastes run?"

"I wouldn't necessarily be so limiting. I like all kinds of literature."

"Because, I'm not sure she would enjoy one quite so... coercive, if that's the right word. A corrupt boss? Is that what you fantasize?"

"I wouldn't say that at all. No." She betrayed a degree of disconcert by babbling when a simple two-letter word would have sufficed.

"I was thinking ... for my wife ... a plot that was, let us say, more willing? Without coercion? Safe, sane, and consensual?"

"The book doesn't involve assault if that's what you're asking. But perhaps your wife wouldn't be comfortable with it." She gave no obvious sign of recognition of the specific niche terms he had chosen.

"No, she probably would not. I on the other hand might be more open-minded. But then this isn't a present for me, is it?" He smiled craftily.

"Let me see if I can find something else for you. For you to give her I mean."

"I want something you would personally recommend," he stated. "Maybe with a hint of desire and humiliation and excitement and apprehension mixed together?"

She turned from the shelf to study him. "Is that where you think my tastes run? Humiliation? Apprehension?"

"You tell me."

She turned back to the bookshelf. "Here's one I'd recommend. A scullery maid in a castle finds true love with the prince but must convince his father to accept her as suitable."

"And the king makes untoward advances?"

"No. You asked what I liked. He merely puts her to a series of tests - tests of skill and mettle I might add. Possibly your wife would enjoy it."

"What makes you think that?"

"It was merely a suggestion, from what little you've told me."

"Yeah, we're both only guessing. Maybe I need one of those books where the reader chooses what happens next. If you want him to buy her flowers, go to page 10. If you want her to send him a secret admirer note, go to page 25. If you want them to consummate their desires, go to page 69? You know the type of book?"

"That's -- oh, what is it called? - Interactive fiction? I think you find that more on the internet. Video games, maybe. I wouldn't know of an example here. I don't think it would actually work too well in print. Maybe in the children's section. There must be a name for it in a children's book but it's escaping me at the moment. Maybe the Adolescent section. Choose The Adventure, maybe?"

"Yeah, you're probably right. So I'm back to going with your own tastes in romance. And sexual fantasy."

"We don't carry books that are explicit."

"No," he backpedaled, "I don't mean that. I realize it's all left to the mind's eye. What about some of those larger books on the bottom shelf? She is a voracious reader, after all."

She crouched to review the books down there. Not immediately finding what she sought, she got down fully on her knees to look. After considering a couple of options, she pulled out a tome slightly thicker than its neighbors, a 500-page opus. "This one is set in the eighteenth century and is of two young women of the aristocracy who each fall in love with a..."

"What about a story about someone working in a bookshop? Maybe the owner of the shop, even?"

She looked up at him from her floor-level vantage. "Oh, now. This is getting a little personal, don't you think?" In addition to his suggestive words, it was evident that he was taking advantage of the opportunity to look straight down her shirt.

"On the contrary. These novels," he replied, looking her squarely in the eye again, "they suggest scenarios that excite the imagination. But, don't you find... they are a little unrealistic at times? There's romance, but in a neat and orderly fashion, way back in a time when the folks might not think though all the details - all the, *ahem*, logistics. Compared to real life, I mean, if someone encounters the actual..."

She cut him off. "You came in here looking for that specific genre. I'm not the one who has to defend it. I offer them for sale." She started to get up.

"Please, stay there for just one minute. Hear me out." When she relented and put her knee down again. he continued, "first of all, if you tell me to leave, I will. Never to return. I promise. But then you'll always wonder."

"I don't like the sound of this."

"Please. Just listen. In these stories, by chapter two the heroine is usually faced with a choice. And because it's chapter two, her decision is usually the wrong one, and she spends the rest of the book trying to undo it and go back to the one she should have chosen in the first place. Otherwise there's no story. She has to get back with the guy who was right for her, who she could have had with the right choice in the first place."

She turned toward him slightly. "Some books, maybe. I wouldn't say it's universal. Circumstances outside her control often are what put the story in motion."

"Perhaps. But still, she makes a decision somewhere along the line. In a book it's all neat and tidy - even if the character herself has difficulty along the way. But in real life, it's a lot different. In the book, you are aroused by the story as it unfolds. The question is, does the real-life scenario arouse you the same way? Or is the act of reading the fictional story what's dishonest?"

"What's your point? I have work to do." The kneeling position in front of a standing man was obviously becoming unsustainable for her, and not merely in the physical sense of joints that were no longer young.

"No, wait. The point is this. I'm not Fabio. But in the books there's always someone like him who meets her, finds her irresistible despite her willful and free-spirited nature, and he must have her, even if only once and then never again for the rest of his life. Desire. That's the key. Because, I must confess, I came into your shop two months ago looking for a book. You were dressed like one of the women on the cover of a romance paperback, someone who belongs in the arms of Fabio, let us say. I couldn't stop thinking about you and so I came back out here last month to see whether I still felt the same, and you were dressed in a similar way, and I did, and I do. Now I am here one last time, throwing caution to the wind, to see whether fantasy matches reality for Bettina Sparks."

"I thought you looked familiar." She started to get up again.

"Please," he said. "I haven't finished."

She relaxed back into the kneeling position but gazed at him skeptically. "Look, you're wasting my time. I dress the way I do because I like it. Not to feed someone else's fantasy. Or, it's starting to look like, to earn me my very own stalker."

"I looked into your background only to confirm whether reality matched my assumptions. Thou truly art lovelier and more temperate than a day in summer."

"Sonnet 18, but you're ruining the meter."

"It's how I feel. I haven't even mentioned the rough winds and the hot eye of heaven in that sonnet. All I can think of is that you are the cover of a romance novel, come to life. But I swear to you, if a customer comes, we'll hear the bell, and I will leave."

"If a customer... exactly what do you have in mind? Are you actually suggesting...?" She began to stand up, slightly laboriously in accordance with her aching knees.

"No, please, listen. Like in a novel, this man will present you with a choice. It being only chapter one, he has a little bit of the bad boy in him, maybe, but he has a good heart. But most of all, his desire is real - oh so real. It will be your choice, either way."

"'Either'? Either you are crazy or else I am, for even listening to you. You said you're married. So am I. Which you already know if you've done your homework as you say. And because you have been stalking me on the Internet, maybe it's time for you to pay for your book of Shakespeare and buy one of these I've suggested for your wife, assuming there even is a wife, and we both move on with our day."

"Hear me out. If you choose one way, the man will leave, and then you will always wonder what might have been. Forever. Perhaps you will even fantasize about the possibility, from time to time when you are alone, when your thoughts are truly your own. If, conversely, you choose the other way, then the narrative will continue. And then your fantasies ever afterward will derive from the delicious reality you choose that day. With him."

"I'm fine with the narrative of my own life as it is, thank you. What is it you think you have to offer?" She drew herself up to her full 5'4" height and looked him, nearly, eye to eye - to judge his reaction, or perhaps as a challenge.

He interpreted her question and her body language as signs of interest and continued. "So this is the choice for you, Bettina Sparks, a simple yes or no question: if I pull down the zipper of my trousers right now, and then do nothing more than that, will you continue the conversation with me? Or would you call the police?"

She didn't answer, not yet. The air between them had thickened--not with tension, not quite, but with something charged and uncertain, like the space just before a coin lands after it's flipped. Something in her posture shifted--thoughtful, maybe. Or simply stunned.

If you want her to say Yes she will call the police, go to Page 97. Do not look at other pages.

If you want her to continue the conversation, go to Chapter 2. Do not look at other pages.

Do Not Look at Other Pages Until You Are Directed There.

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Chapter 2

She laughed, not entirely mirthfully this time. "I've been propositioned a few times in my life. This? Well, I'll give you credit, this is a new one."

"It isn't a proposition. It's an invitation. And, that wasn't an answer to my question."

"Well, I'm not kneeling back down. You - talking like a pervert while I was down on my knees - and now this, this, this -- well it certainly seems like a proposition, to me at least. Nothing like in one of the books you're talking about. Or a sonnet."

"But at least you're talking. The books, dear lady, they leave to the imagination the specifics that reality must play out. It's perfectly clear what the books say happens, even if the words are indirect. And perversion? Nothing could be a perversion of the beauty you hold. And you *still* didn't answer the question. 'Would you?'"

She felt the air shift, absurdity pressing in at the edges, like the moment in a dream when you realize you're dreaming but can't quite wake.

"An answer. You want an answer. Okay. Would I? No. I wouldn't call the police. It's a lot of bother if it can be handled some way else. You may be crazy, but I don't think you're stupid. It's the stupid ones who make it necessary to call for outside help."

Without further comment, he put his hand to the fly of his gray slacks, placed finger and thumb on the tab, and pulled straight down. The slacks were a loose fit, but the sides of the fly remained together and nothing within his slacks was visible, strictly speaking, although the outline of his erection was noticeable.

She eyed his crotch, and when he made no further move she looked up at his face again.

A pause.

"That's it?" she queried. "That's your fantasy?"

"I'm not playing out my fantasy. I'm seeking to learn yours and play it out for you. *With* you. I offer you an invitation. And in so doing, I've given you my own consent. Now, I am seeking yours. I want your consent. I want your full, and unconditional, consent."

"You want my consent. My consent for what, precisely?"

"Precision? You ask for precision? Unnecessary precision is the enemy of good literature. This is a romance novel, come to life for you, Bettina. No, I don't offer precision, I want only your consent. Consent, undiluted by the whys and wherefores of everyday transactions. Go inside my trousers and pull out my cock. That will signify your consent. For everything else."

If you want her to pull out his cock, go to page 3.

If you want her to refuse, go to page 98.

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Chapter 3

Hesitantly, she reached inside the open fly. His cock was fully erect, and she encountered his shaft immediately, unimpeded by any undergarment. She grasped it and pulled it into view. He was uncircumcised and while it was not a particularly large cock, not even average quite, still it was a good functional one, with a medium sized head that was reddish with arousal when she pulled back the foreskin.

"It's not that big," she commented.

"What it lacks in size it makes up for in potency," he replied. "Now rub it. Get me good and ready."

If you want her to rub his cock, go to Chapter 4.

If you want her to refuse, go to page 98.

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Chapter 4

Transfixed, she gently glided her fist slowly, slowly, along the length of his rigid member, from the nearly hairless base to the tip.

"You seem to know all about me. I don't even know your name." She reversed direction and caressed it from tip back to base.

"Call me JJ."

"JJ What?"

"Just JJ."

"You shave down there?" she asked, continuing the slow stroking motion, forward and back.

"Of course," he replied. "In fact I trimmed just this morning, for you."

"I'm flattered," she said. "I'm so turned on now."

"My grooming reflects my desire, which has been growing since I first saw you. It suggests a desire for your favorable attention in return. When that desire is reciprocated, the passions become unmistakable. The dilemma becomes whether to proceed slowly or to full consummation."

"Slowly, JJ. Slowly."

"The oral fixation predominates when consummation is deferred."

"I've read that, I think," she remarked agreeably.

"Then are you ready to receive me now? Are you ready to accept my seed, in your mouth? Just as you would for Fabio?"

"You're asking me to get down on my knees again, and suck your cock?"

If you want her to suck his cock, go to page 5.

If you want her to refuse to suck his cock, go to page 6.

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Page 5

You have got to be kidding me, dear reader. No, let me say that more plainly: she's not going to suck his cock. Not in a million years. She's just not. Not now, not in a million years, not ever. Not even if it were Fabio, and certainly not when he is the fat fuck of a man she sees before herself now. Actually I gave you more porn service than you deserve, dear reader, by even having her reach in and fondle the guy this much in Chapter 4. Chapter 3 doesn't work either. I got carried away, I admit. He walks in, starts talking creepy, thinking it's like the artsy-fartsy fiction she is accustomed to - and instead of getting up from her knees and conducting herself in a normal, businesslike manner and soon ordering him out of her shop, she's going to perform fellatio on him? Simply because he asks her to?

Get real, dear reader. Get real.

Go to page 98

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Page 6

You're right. Duh. Of course she's not going to. He's not Fabio, is he? Did you really feel there was even a legitimate choice for this character to make?

If you feel there was a legitimate choice, and now she should reconsider, go to page 5.

If you understand how ludicrous this all is, go to page 98.

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Page 47

What are you doing, dear reader? There is no page 47. You were told not to look at other pages than the one you are directed to. Do you think you are special? The rules don't somehow apply to you? Was the process not made clear at the outset? You have proved unworthy to even pick up this carefully crafted work of art. Close the book, and pray Bettina never learns what page you turned to. Go outside. Learn something about longing that doesn't end in shame."

Go to page 99

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Page 48

She moaned slightly as his rock-hard manhood penetrated her willing anus. The oral pleasuring they had just performed mutually as foreplay did not sufficiently prepare her for the very first anal experience of her life. It hurt, and the thought crossed her mind to be grateful he wasn't larger, but she also could understand that accepting this momentary measure of pain might pay dividends in pleasures for herself that she had only read of - or imagined.

You like that? You do? Look, I'm not telling you again, dear reader. You are a sick fuck, even if I am too for writing it. There is no way this mild bookshop owner is going to submit to anal sex right there on the floor of her own bookstore, with a perfect stranger at that, and in the middle of the day with the front door unlocked. It's not happening. Get over it. And didn't I already tell you? Stop reading where you are not supposed to. Get out of here, will you? This is private material, here on this page. It's not part of the story at all. I screwed up. It wasn't meant to be here. Go away.

Go to page 99

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Page 69

They made love among the poetry shelves, because of course they did. She'd meant to pull him toward the storeroom--the couch in there was at least marginally upholstered--but he pressed her gently against the nearest stack of chapbooks and began unbuttoning her blouse with the kind of unhurried confidence that suggested this was not his first time in a failing bookstore.

He was tall. Properly tall. And his hair, though a little too perfect, curled just enough at the collar to suggest softness. His name was Fabio, which she thought was ridiculous, until he pronounced it the Italian way, like a vow and a whisper at once: Fah-bee-oh. She didn't even roll her eyes.

Midway through - just as she felt the quake building in her hips from the girth that she felt - he began to speak. At first she thought it was a moan, but then she realized it was a stanza of poetry.

"somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near"

She laughed softly against his chest. "Don't you dare quote Cummings at me while you're inside me."

He paused. "Why not?"

"You'll ruin him for me."

"I'll be gentle," he murmured, and then proved it.

"your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose"

"You know the whole thing?"

"or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut "

He had made it partway through the third stanza before his breath hitched, and for a moment, poetry gave way to physiology. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck. She held him, heart thudding, flesh slick, both of them adrift.

A long moment passed.

"or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;"

He paused, then, still without moving inside her, he whispered the rest:

"nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands"

He pulled out and finished reciting.

"the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands"

Silence bloomed between them. Then he exhaled. "You know," he said, "your bookshop could use a coat of paint. Inside and out."

She snickered. "You really know how to spoil the mood." Her mood was clearly not spoiled right now.

"Possibly it needs structural work too," he added.

She blinked. "You only noticed that just now?"

"I've been thinking," he said, propping himself on one arm like a lover in a 1970s cologne ad, "about what to do with my father's inheritance. I want to invest in something real. Something beautiful, if a little tragic. Would half a million dollars be enough for five percent of this place?"

She stared at him.

(A few months earlier, on a whim, she'd asked her bank for a business appraisal. She didn't own the land and was only renting the structure. The number came back: $35,000. Total. Including inventory and the wobbly espresso machine.)

He waited.

She smiled.

He waited.

"Roll over and I'll give you my answer," she said, and when he did she slid halfway down the length of his body.

"Turn around," he told her. "I want to taste your juices."

She complied. "They're your juices too, you know."

"And your juices are on me. I'm not squeamish, and neither are you. But wait, before we start again, don't you need to open your shop soon?"

"The customers can wait."

"You don't want to lose their business."

"Screw the customers," she said fiercely, using the earthiest term she was willing to invoke in the presence of someone else.

"No. Only you," he said, and then sighed as she began to pleasure him again.

And you - yes, you, dear reader - you weren't supposed to see this.

I keep telling you not to look. This wasn't meant for your eyes. You took a wrong turn.

It's just Bettina's masturbation fantasy, after JJ walked into her life last Monday and then walked right back out the same morning. It was abhorrent, but something about it percolated deep inside her for a couple of days thereafter. It's for her. It's not for you, you cheap voyeur. It's not for you. It's not for you.

But as long as you're here:

If you want to read what happened the previous Monday, go to Chapter 1.

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Page 95

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I'm actually divorced. I only said I was married in order to break the ice, as it were. If I were to leave now, you will always wonder what it would have been like to suck my cock. Would you really have me leave you, so cruelly? Wondering, wondering, wondering? For all eternity?"

If you want her to relent, go to page 5.

If you want her to resist, go to Page 97.

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Page 96

Page 96 is just Page 69 turned around in a different order that doesn't actually change anything.

Go to Page 69

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Page 97

"Yes, I will. I really am saying that. I'm giving you a chance to leave now, before I have to call the authorities."

If you want him to try again to persuade her, go to page 95.

If you want him to accede to her wishes, go to page 99.

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Page 98

She stood up and neatened her skirt. "All right, bozo. I guess I was wrong about you. Maybe you *are* one of the stupid ones. Zip up and get out."

He put his cock away and pulled up the zipper. "Okay, okay. See? I'm doing exactly as you asked me to. Like I promised. But, think it over. Let me give you one more chance at fantasy turned to reality. Are you saying you would really refuse the chance to make fantasy come true, Bettina Sparks?"

If you want her to say yes, go to page 99.

If you want to give her a second chance to change her mind, go to page 95.

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Page 99

He left the novels where they were and put down the Shakespeare too, turned, and walked to the front of the bookstore. As he opened the door outward, a frail and elderly woman was about to enter. In her arms she held a small carton, containing perhaps a dozen romance paperbacks that she evidently intended to sell, perhaps in order to pay for food. His abrupt opening of the door knocked the box out of her arms, and the books all scattered onto the ground.

"Don't even bother, lady," he said, striding purposefully past the mess he had caused, "the owner doesn't know what romance is. She doesn't know what real love is. I bet you don't either. You have nothing but your precious books, do you?"

He departed, never to return, leaving cock-teasing Bettina Sparks and the horny old broad to masturbate to their preferred forms of fiction, yet to wonder always "what might have been" when they had the one chance to play out their fantasies in real life with their own personal Fabio.

THE END

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Page 100

There is no Page 100. Go home. But even if there were a Page 100, I didn't write this for you. I wrote it for myself. I may have said some rude things to you in passing, dear reader. But that is because you aren't actually dear reader. I am. On my bad days, I am also JJ. I might even be, on some days, Bettina Sparks. Hero, villain, all the same. I'm pretty sure I'm not that one other customer at the beginning, though; nor the old lady. Now go home like I told you.