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Bull stared at her wondering what she might do. Barbara knew what he wanted and what he expected to see her do. This was the ultimate test of how much of a slut she would be for him. And Barbara was going to show him how disgusting she really could be. She unscrewed the cap on the bottle and poured some in the glass. She looked around, saw all eyes on her, then clutched the glass in her hand bringing it to her lips. She swallowed it down, all of it, gulping the glassful of piss. "Fuck, honey," Bull remarked shocked, "you're a piss drinker too?" Barbara poured another glass. Before she picked it up though, one of the blackmen that was fucking his girlfriend strolled up to Barbara at the bar. He dumped something in the glass splashing some of the urine onto the bar. There were two condoms floating in Barbara's glass. "Watching you made me and my girl pretty horny. I fucked her twice, once in the cunt and once in her ass. First time, too, she let me in her ass." Barbara stared at her. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica Kauffmann has so skillfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the expression of his very hands and feet, for in men, as well as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions. He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut, he made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his destination at the exact moment. He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation, and as he knew that in.
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