Light Sleeper

Those who simply want to get to the 'good parts' may click here or here. The rest of you, please consider the following:

1) The following is a work of erotic fiction. Those under 18 (or whatever is the age of majority in your jurisdiction) should stop reading now.

2) This story contains characters copyrighted by Marvel Comics. This story should be considered a parody of those characters. This story is also distributed free of charge and is a non-commercial enterprise; the author derives no profit from its distribution. No copyright infringement is intended.

3) No knowledge of continuity is necessary to appreciate this story, but continuity buffs may appreciate knowing that the story is set sometime after Spectacular Spider-Man #129. If you see any continuity errors that bother you, then just consider this story to be set in some alternative Marvel Universe. (Also, get over yourself.)

4) This story contains depictions of sex as a healthy, non-degrading activity that consenting adults engage in for fun and pleasure. Those who prefer their depictions of sex to be debased should go find something else to read. This being the Internet, you shouldn't have to look hard.

5) Stories like this take time and effort to write. The chief reward an author receives for this labour is the knowledge that other people have found them good. If you enjoyed this story, or if you have constructive criticism, please drop the author a line at mildmanneredauthor@yahoo.com and let him know. The more feedback he receives, the more likely it is he'll keep writing new stories.

I woke, to full alertness, when I heard the noise. The burglar was skilled -- very skilled, as I later found out -- but in this case skill alone wasn't enough: I am a very light sleeper.

I glanced at my bedside clock. The glowing green numbers told me it was a little past four in the morning: far too early for any servant. Carefully I reached down and pulled the covers off, gooseflesh rising instantly as the cool air of the apartment washed over me. As silently as I could manage, I rolled over to the edge of the bed, placed my feet down at the bedside, and stood up.

The mattress was new and the carpet was heavy shag, so there were no creaks or groans to alert the intruder I was awake and about. I reached down to my nightstand drawer and, ever so slowly, opened it. The nightstand wasn't new, but it was heavy mahogany and consequently I had the runners kept well oiled. The drawer opened almost soundlessly. In the dark I couldn't see inside, but I didn't need to: I reached in, found the cloth bundle I sought, and pulled it out. Placing it on the bed, I unwrapped it by touch and found the pistol inside.

Private ownership of handguns is illegal in Britain, but there are ways to get them if you want them. And after living in New York as long as I had, I did want one: I'd had a bad experience there once, and no longer felt comfortable at home without a pistol at hand, for my own protection. And it seemed my precaution was well founded. The police might confiscate the gun when they found it, but that was a small price to pay. I had no fear of going to jail over possession of an illegal weapon.

Rich men never do.

The walnut stock felt heavy and comforting in my hand. A moment's careful groping in the drawer found a cartridge. The gun loaded, I held it in my right hand, barrel down, close to my hips, but angled slightly away from my foot. Silently, I left the bedroom, my tread noiseless on the carpet. My bedroom door was open, and the short hall was also carpeted, which helped. Reaching the end of the hallway, I hung back, in the darkness of the entryway, and looked out into the room beyond.

The penthouse was cozy, but luxurious. I didn't need much space: if I needed to entertain seriously, or to relax, I had the country estate. All I needed in city accommodations was a home base to rest in on those occasions when business called me in for an extended period. Still, there were times when I needed to entertain in a more intimate setting than my club, so the apartment was furnished appropriately. From what I could tell from my vantage point, the plasma TV was still mounted by the parlour area, and the silver still lay on the dining table, so the burglar either hadn't gotten to them yet or wasn't interested in them.

A few faint scrapings came from the library area, which lay out of my view, on the far side of the enclosed kitchen. I nodded to myself. This thief was good; he'd correctly identified what was the most valuable piece in the whole place.

Swiftly, and as silently as I could manage, I crossed the room into the kitchenette. Passing through the small area (my dinner parties were usually catered) I stood in the far archway, looking out through the library to the balcony. And there was the burglar, hunched against the wall, attempting to prise away the painting affixed between the bookcases.

I aimed the gun carefully, then flipped on the kitchen lightswitch. The lights behind me came on, flooding the room with light. "If you move," I said, "I will shoot you."

Despite the surprise the burglar must have felt, he didn't start, or cry out, but just froze in place, hunched over his work. I couldn't make out any details: the light was behind me and my own body blocked much of it from entering the room beyond. This was a critical moment: the burglar was surprised, and surprised people often act on instinct. It was entirely possible he'd try something, in which case I'd have to shoot him. I had to keep control of the situation to make sure it didn't become violent. I held the pistol firmly. "Step away from the wall now, slowly."

"Okay," said the figure, in a slow, measured tone. "I don't want any trouble."

I mentally relaxed. This one was smart enough to play it cool when guns were around. The figure took a step back and stood erect. The tools fell from his hands and landed on the hardwood floor with a series of clanks.

"Step back, towards the window, slowly."

When the burglar was practically on the threshold of the balcony, I stepped forward into the room. The distance between us was now such that I was out of easy reach. Without wavering my aim, I reached out and turned on the library lights.

As I turned the dimmer switch, I got my first good look at my intruder. It was a woman... and what a woman! She was dressed in a black catsuit that wrapped her so tightly as to leave nothing to the imagination: her long legs, slim waist, and stupendous chest were clearly defined. Delicate ruffs of white fur at the wrists and neck added a touch of mystery, as did the slight black domino mask she wore. A long mane of silver hair, held discreetly back by a small black headband, completed the outfit. They were obviously her working clothes, but they could have doubled as a 'sexy cat' Halloween costume. Cat burglar indeed.

She kept herself stock-still in the light, staring intently at the gun in my hand. "I admire your taste in art," she said, nodding at the Vermeer she'd been trying to remove. "That means you've got good judgment. Good enough to know that there's no need for that gun."

"Don't try anything and I won't use it. I don't want to hurt you, but I will defend myself. And my home."

She was about to speak, but I interrupted her. "You... you're the Black Cat, aren't you?"

She made a slight curtsy. "Guilty as charged."

"I see. We've met before, you know."

"Have we? I'd think I'd remember."

There was a hint of a come-on there, but I kept my aim steady. "Yes. You know, of course, that I've only been in London for a few weeks." She nodded. To know about that Vermeer she'd had to have checked up on me. "I used to live in New York. And late last year I was caught up in a little -- hostage situation, I suppose -- at the Chase Manhattan? That fellow called 'the Shocker' was involved." She nodded again. "You and Spider-Man took care of him and his gang quite effectively."

"It was my pleasure. The Shocker's a vicious little punk."

"But a dangerous one. That poor security guard... I testified at the trial. I felt it was the least I could do." I frowned. "So you're not a... superhero, anymore? You've become a thief?"

With a shrug, she said "I always was a thief. The other stuff, that was just to keep my man happy. But we're not together anymore."

That was another come-on. I said nothing, keeping the gun aimed squarely at her, for a long moment. I didn't want her to think I was being influenced by her little gambits. Finally I said "I'm going to lower the gun now."

Her lips twitched in satisfaction. "Yes...?"

"And then you can leave. The way you came in if you like, or the elevator if you prefer."

She frowned slightly; this she hadn't expected. "Leave?"

"I feel I owe you that much for what you did in New York. I don't want to send you to jail. I don't want to put a bullet in you. But I also want to keep my painting. So I'll put the gun down, and expect you to depart peaceably."

My voice was firm. She stared at me intently, clearly thinking hard. She nodded again. Slowly I lowered the gun to my side and thumbed on the safety. I hoped I hadn't misjudged her, because I knew how fast she was. In this position she could drop me with a kick or a punch before I could react, and we both knew it. She didn't move. Reaching behind me, I placed the gun on a nearby bookshelf.

Her green eyes flashed. With a smile, she blew me a kiss. She stepped away, onto the balcony proper. Grabbing at something in the shadows of the wall -- a rope, perhaps? It was too dark to see -- she gathered herself in then sprang up onto the railing, going into a one-armed handstand. For a moment she held that position, a dark figure barely visible against the darkness beyond; then she was gone, falling away into the night. I stepped forward quickly and looked down. The street was thirty stories below but she was already most of the way down, falling, but not straight down, but in a controlled dive, somehow pulling away towards the low-rises across the street. How had she...?

With a snap the wire attached to my railing severed itself and disappeared into space. So that was how. A neat trick. I was even more impressed later when I learned how she'd broken the line: it was smeared with a contact explosive, one she could detonate with an electric charge sent from the other end.

Shaking my head I retreated back into the coolness of my penthouse suite. She knew how to make an exit. I turned out the lights and went back to bed. As I drifted back to sleep, I wondered if I would tell anyone about this. Probably not: I'd let her go so this escapade wouldn't get her into trouble. Besides, who would believe me?

I was disturbed in my sleep again a few nights later. After a day of trying business I had retired early; I had already been asleep for a couple hours when the tapping at my window brought me awake: it was midnight precisely.

I looked out the window, and I saw the Black Cat there. There was just enough ambient light to make out her pale features, in contrast to the darkness of London beyond. She was perched on the rooftop ledge and was leaning, upside-down, from above, her white hair, gathered into a ponytail, shaking in the breeze like a leaf.

I sat bolt upright, astonished. Aside from the shock of her unexpected appearance, that position looked dangerous to me. She was a trained cat burglar and acrobat, but still. She must have read my feelings on my face, because she smiled, her teeth gleaming in the dimness. She tapped the windowpane again, the tips of her claws making a sharp rapping noise against the glass, then pointed off to her left (using her right hand, because she was upside down). She mouthed something which I couldn't make out, but in context I took to mean I'm going to the balcony, unlock the door. Taken off-guard, I didn't weigh my options; I just nodded stupidly and struggled to free myself from the sheets. As she saw me rise, she hoisted herself upwards and disappeared from view. I strode to the balcony door from which she'd departed on our last meeting. She had gotten there ahead of me -- what a superb athlete she was! -- and was leaning against the doorframe, a sly smile on her lips.

I didn't hesitate. Reaching down, I unlocked the door and slid it open. I'd replaced the lock the previous day, but had no illusions I could keep her out if she wanted to come in. But I wasn't afraid of her: if she'd meant me ill she wouldn't have knocked on my window. No, I wasn't afraid, or suspicious; I was intrigued. Why had she returned? What did she want?

Not that a man needs much encouragement to let a woman like that into his rooms at night. Between knocking on my window and arriving on my balcony she'd untied her hair, which now fell free around her face. And her catsuit was unzipped more than it had been the other night, showing a generous amount of cleavage. I glanced at it appreciatively as she walked past me into the room. Without looking back she moved, hips swaying, into the parlour area, which allowed me to stare at the curves of her round, full ass, which her catsuit defined perfectly.

Reaching my long couch she lay down on it, legs crossed, weight on her side, one hand holding up her head, the arm hidden behind a wave of silver hair. Her eyes, behind her domino mask, gleamed, and her smile was mysterious. She looked at me and waited.

I'd been in enough high-stakes business meetings to know a challenge when I saw it. She'd made a serve, so I'd return. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Scotch on the rocks, please. No soda. Any single malt will do, but no blends."

I raised an eyebrow. Pleased at her own audacity, she widened her smile. "Life's too short."

I said nothing, but fixed us both a Laphroaig on ice. While I was at it, I turned on some more lights, keeping them dim. If she wanted to play the coquette, I could play the swain. She plucked her drink off of the tray I brought and toasted me wordlessly. She sniffed delicately, and then drank. I sat down on the couch opposite and watched. She purred appreciatively at the spirit's smoothness. As the fire began to burn in her throat, she brought a hand up to her neck and took a deep breath. Her chest bulged, and the zipper of her catsuit pulled down a notch under the pressure. I smiled and ogled her, making no pretense of what I was doing.

"That's nice," she breathed. She meant the Scotch.

"It certainly is," I agreed. I meant something else.

We watched each other, in silence, her smile sly, mine knowing. She said, "You don't seem surprised to see me."

She had broken the silence first, and I nodded slightly in satisfaction. I was an indifferent tennis player, but the volley had always been the strong part of my game.

"I am surprised, but I pride myself on being a good host."

"You seem like a man who appreciates the finer things," she said, with a glance around the room.

"As you say: life's too short."

"A man after my own heart."

"And you're a woman after other parts of me."

She grinned toothily. "Too true." And then she moved, so quickly I had no chance to react. From a sitting position she dove forward and vaulted over the coffee table, so that she stood directly in front of me. Reaching down to brace herself on the back of the couch, she planted her foot and pivoted on her centre of gravity, such that in one smooth motion she was sitting right next to me on the couch, which creaked at the sudden weight. The whole move had taken perhaps a second. I'd never seen anyone move so fast. Clearly I'd been in more danger than I'd realized in our earlier encounter: it seemed very likely she could have beaten me handily, gun in my hand or not. And I was just as vulnerable now.

But she wasn't interested in beating me in this encounter either. She had other things on her mind. With a hiss of indrawn breath, she leaned in towards me and put her lips on mine, her tongue pressing eagerly against my teeth.

To say I was taken aback would be an understatement. I still wasn't entirely awake, and everything I'd done so far had been on autopilot: opening the door, serving her a drink, making répartée.

Still, when a beautiful, stupendously-built, and scantily-clad woman comes to your apartment late at night and tries to kiss you, some responses come naturally. I kissed back fervidly. As she felt me respond, she relaxed, no longer pressing against me, but pulling over to my left side. I reached for her with my left arm and put it around her shoulders, and she settled into my embrace, her arms holding me tight across my upper back. Her tongue caressed my own, and her formidable bosom asserted itself against my chest.

My response was immediate: my cock sprang to life and began pushing up against the slight silk of my pajama bottoms.

We kissed for long enough that I needed to come up for air. I pulled my head back and she relinquished me. Her beautiful face filled my vision: from here I could see just how flawless her features were. Her hair was a silky silver, her eyes a deep blue, her cheekbones prominent, her skin soft and smooth, her nose aristocratic and Roman, her lips a vibrant rose, her teeth a pearly white. Her slight leather domino mask concealed just enough to add a note of mystery to the whole.

She smiled and made another sharp intake of breath, a sound at once dangerous and sexy. "Nice," she whispered.

All I managed was "What are you -- ?" before she cut me off with another kiss.

I could see where we were headed, and though this whole encounter made no sense to me, I didn't care. I hadn't been a monk since my divorce but running my companies took most of my time, and so I hadn't been with a woman in a while. And the women I had been with were pretty in a quiet, upper-class way, nothing like the statuesque bombshell who was in my arms, panting for me, at this very second. So I did what any sensible man would do and went for it.

We kissed again and, in the moment, I slid my arms down her back, past her waist, to that fantastic ass. I squeezed her cheeks hard through her catsuit and she purred appreciatively. I tried to shift her weight over onto me but she resisted: she couldn't have weighed very much at all, given her acrobatic talents, but trying to move her was like trying to lift a granite statue. She pressed herself against my chest then leaned back, breaking our kiss. Freeing her arms she pressed her left hand firmly against my chest, holding me in place; with her right she reached down and began stroking my erect cock through my pajamas. I groaned with pleasure and she laughed. A few quick, firm caresses and my member was fully erect.

She had me pinned, after a fashion, so I did the only thing I could do. I reached up and grabbed at the zipper of her catsuit. I pulled it down and her magnificent breasts popped out. She wasn't wearing a bra; the tight leather had been holding her assets in place, and with the pressure of the zipper removed the catsuit could no longer contain them. They were things of beauty. They were milky-pale, without blemish or vein. Her nipples, already erect, nestled in rosy-pink aureoles as big as half-dollars. She breathed in hard as I reached up for them, and they reached new fullness, bouncing and jiggling without a hint of sag. As I cupped them in my hands, I grunted with surprise: for all of their awesome heft, all their defiance of gravity, they felt natural. She chuckled and whispered "I'm silicone-free, baby."

"But how could you possibly -- "

She growled. She let go of my cock and pressed herself forward, burying me in those unbelievable tits. My face was completely enveloped. I pressed her mounds around me, feeling their pillowy-softness, smelling their perfume, and moaned with joy. She began to bounce on top of me, so that the pressure of her weight on me oscillated from her breasts on my face to her ass on my cock.

"You like that, baby? You like that?" Her whispers were urgent. I indicated my agreement as much as I could, in that position.

Finally she let me come up for air. Somehow, still on the couch, she rose to her feet, her costume still wrapping her arms and legs, but gloriously disheveled on her front, leaving her exposed from neck to midriff. She looked down on me and licked her lips. "Tell me, baby: costume on or costume off?"

"On," I breathed.

She smiled her wicked smile again. "No one ever says 'off.'"

She stepped backwards onto the floor and sank into a crouch before me. She raised her right hand just so and made a quick gesture at my crotch, then another, then another. She flicked her wrists and the tiny claws in her gloves retracted, leaving my pajamas neatly incised and my cock exposed. She hissed again and practically dove forward.

I'm sure it goes without saying, but she was a fantastic cocksucker. Some girls go slow and gentle and delicate, and there's nothing wrong with that, but that wasn't her style. She was fast and sloppy, bobbing up and down on my cock with furious intensity. Her mouth was warm and very wet, and her saliva and my pre-cum flew in droplets as she sucked and sucked. Her lips smacked and she moaned with pleasure as she worked, her cheeks dimpling from the effort.

I lay back and tried to take it all in. That girl on her knees before me, groaning and bobbing and sucking, was the Black Cat. Her silver hair floated around her head in wisps, and her gigantic breasts heaved. I was getting an amazing blowjob from a superhero celebrity, a girl with beauty, a killer body, and international notoriety. And she was into it, too: I had a quickie with a Vogue cover model once, and it was boring: she didn't really know what she was doing, but she acted like she was God's gift to the male sex. The Cat wasn't like that. She went down on me with skill and with gusto. And this from a woman I never would have thought was in my league: it was like having Jenna Jameson or Jennifer Love Hewitt or Jen Walters suck you off, or all three of them at once.

I couldn't hold out against that onslaught for long. Shuddering with the effort of resisting orgasm, I managed "I'm coming..." and she groaned with pleasure again. As I began to spurt, she took hold of my shaft with her right hand—the first time she'd used her hands in the whole exercise—and pulled upwards in short strokes, milking me like a cow. She wrapped her mouth around my spitting head and swallowed as fast as she could, draining me.

I settled back, relaxed, and let her finish lapping up my cream. And in a minute I was done. But to my surprise, she wasn't: even though I was limp, she kept my member in her mouth, sucking on it, tickling it with her tongue. She began to explore my body with her hands, as best as she could from that position: her fingers caressed my thighs, my sides, my nipples. She reached out and took my hands into hers: with firm insistence, she pulled me forward and placed my hands on her tits. I fondled her chest and she made little cooing noises and kept licking and sucking. She knew what she was doing: within ten minutes my cock was perking up to life again. I'd never had a multiple orgasm in my life, but it seemed tonight was my night.

Finally, satisfied with her work, she raised her head and smiled at me. "Now," she purred, "we can fuck all night."

"You're amazing," I murmured.

"Damn straight."

She rose and beckoned. "Come on, stud," she breathed. "Take me to bed."

I managed to rise. I collected our almost-untouched drinks from the table, and almost dropped them; when I turned my back on her she pinched my ass. I chuckled and walked back to my bedroom, the Cat padding behind me. When I reached the bed I turned to find her surveying the room with a critical eye. "Very nice," she whispered, and began doffing her costume. She turned around before bending over to pull it off of her legs, which allowed her to rub her asscheeks against my cock, which hardened more in appreciation. As she stepped out of her costume I offered her her glass. Rather than take it she took hold of my glass, which I held in my other hand, and held it to her lips. This move was unexpected and difficult: to keep from spilling I had to draw in close to her, our bodies only inches apart.

"I like French," she purred. "I like Russian and Greek, too."

"I bet," I managed, weakly. If the surprise blowjob hadn't taught me she was aggressive, that line would have.

She gave me a firm push and I fell backwards onto the bed. I stared up at her, impossibly beautiful, impossibly voluptuous. "Why me?" I asked.

She understood the question. "I told you: Spider-Man and I used to be an item."

"I remember."

"But it didn't work out. That's one reason I'm here in London."

She took a deep breath and looked off into space. For once she wasn't trying to be seductive, but I appreciated how her chest pushed forward all the same. "And what I've found is, there's a certain... thrill... in having a lover who only knows the costume. After—" She hesitated only a moment on the name—"Spider-Man, the men I've dated in my private life haven't given me the same excitement."

She looked down again. "What it boils down to is, when I fuck as the Black Cat, the experience is more intense. It's better." Her gaze and voice was a challenge.

I nodded. "But you don't meet too many eligible guys—"

"Or girls."

"—or girls, when you're in costume. Because if everything goes right, no one knows that you're there."

"Uh huh. So when a classy, handsome guy like you does catch me, but lets me go... well, that's a turn-on, I must admit."

"You're making me blush."

"You like the compliment? Pay me back."

She dove onto the bed, which was still mussed up from when I'd been sleeping in it earlier, and kicked the covers aside. She bunched up the pillows and lay her head back on them. While she got comfortable, I removed my pajamas, so we were both naked, except for her mask. That I never saw her remove. Then I crawled to her and began kissing those stupendous breasts, rolling the nipples under my teeth, and worked my way down her taut, pale belly to her snatch. Her pussy was totally shaved (of course) and her labia were wet and pink in the dim light of my bedside lamp. She spread her legs invitingly, and I down I went.

I lapped at her lips until she was good and wet and then began sucking on her clit and tickling it with my tongue. It didn't take me long to find a rhythm and I settled in for a sustained performance. She was a vocal creature, and began sighing almost immediately, but before long she was moaning, then groaning. I don't know how long I went at her—-obviously I wasn't watching the clock-—but it didn't seem very long before she began clenching her thighs and screaming with joy, her pussy juices flowing like water as she reached orgasm.

Now she was relaxed, but I was ready to go again, my cock having been roused to firmness by the erotic soundtrack she'd produced as I licked and sucked her. So I struggled up and crawled forward, running my stiff member along her leg. She got the message.

"Mmm. Where do you want to put it, lover?"

"Ride me. That's what I want."

"You're the boss."

She relinquished the pillows to me and I lay down, eager to relax a bit after my exertions. Following my directions she pulled out the lube I kept in the drawer of the bedside table and began greasing me up, with a healthy dollop to her own pussy for good measure. She wasn't into half measures: as soon as she was done, she melted into my arms, kissing me fiercely, her hair falling down around me in a silver wave, and pressing her crotch against my cock, bucking against me in quick strokes.

I kissed her back, and sucked on her tits, and fondled her ass, and she teased my cock by pressing against it until I couldn't bear it any more. I pulled my hands back and gripped down on her thighs, and without a word she positioned herself just so and I slipped into her. We both moaned in pleasure: her pussy was nice and tight, a warm, wet piece of heaven. I set my hips and pushed up, and she rode me with abandon, pressing endlessly down on me.

Her prediction came pretty close to true. We didn't fuck all night, but thanks to the blowjob apéritif she'd provided, we did go at it for a long time, easily the longest lovemaking session I've ever had. She was as wild and inventive as she was beautiful and voluptuous, and she seemed to be tireless as well. We started out with her riding me like a cowgirl, but we tried all sorts of other positions: missionary, doggie, reverse cowgirl, and others I don't have the vocabulary to describe. Whenever I got too close to coming, I pulled out, and I kissed her, or fondled her tits, or massaged her feet, or rubbed her back and her ass until I had myself under control. She was warm, and friendly, and patient, and even more avid than I was: I didn't actually take her in the ass, but not because she didn't encourage me to. And when I finally reached my limit and had to come, she commanded me to pull out and finish between her enormous breasts, which she obligingly squeezed tight around my cock and rubbed against me until I burst.

When I was finished I lapsed into a post-coital haze. Without concern for the semen splattered all across her chest, she knelt over me and licked and sucked my member until it was clean, while I idly stroked her ass. I vaguely remember that she said something about going for a shower; I don't think I even managed to gesture toward the bathroom before falling asleep.

Next morning, she was gone. So was the Vermeer, which she had expertly prised from the wall while I slept. And not just the Vermeer, but also the other choice pieces from my collection. And, for good measure, the bottle of Scotch from which we'd been drinking: I suppose she liked the brand. Normally, of course, I'm a light sleeper, and would have heard her abscond with these things, but she had hit upon a novel way to make sure my slumber was deep enough she could work uninterrupted.

I stood in the light of the noonday sun and stared at the place where my artworks had been, puzzled with myself. Because, of course, I should have been angry: I'd been manipulated, used, taken advantage of. But even so I didn't feel angry, and couldn't even muster up that feeling with effort. Instead I felt something more akin to gratitude.

Money comes and money goes. That I know from experience. But what doesn't come very often is an encounter like the one she'd given me: a night with a girl who was gorgeous enough to be a model, voluptuous enough to be a porn star, athletic enough to be tireless, who enjoyed sex, and who was, even if for her own reasons, determined to be as sexually generous as possible. That's what the Black Cat gave me, in return for my paintings.

Seems to me I got the better of the deal.