The knocking at the door persisted and eventually penetrated the layers of sleep. The rain had stopped and whoever was out there wasn’t going away. A number of possibilities came to mind, none of them good. It had to be connected to the girl. Her father; her mother; a boyfriend …? I’ve always been a glass half empty kind of bloke, a pessimist.
My accommodation was a static caravan, the place I’d come to bash out the fourth in a series of novels, and escape out of a back door was impossible, simply because there was no back door.
I didn’t fancy the ignominious prospect of being seen by a neighbour, no matter how transitory their stay at the holiday camp might be, so shuffling my middle-aged arse out of a window was a non-starter as well.
No, whoever it was wasn’t leaving, not judging by the insistent knocking that had reached a level which began to vibrate the shell of the van. Pulling on yesterday’s jeans and shrugging into the shirt I checked the clock as I half-stumbled to the door. It was later than I’d thought; the night had worn me out. I usually begin the day with a kick start of caffeine and its close relative nicotine but was to be disappointed this mid-morning.
I opened the door expecting the worst, and it was far worse than I’d imagined …
***
She’d appeared suddenly. One moment, when I looked up from the Word document on the laptop screen and searched futilely for inspiration from the beaten pewter immensity of the North Sea, there had been nobody in sight. Next I looked, after inserting a comma and then immediately deleting, there she was.
“Hot in’t it?” she said, cheeky, precocious and stunning. “Got a cig?” she asked without waiting for any response to her statement. The girl rested her elbows on the railing that formed a three-sided square around an upraised platform which served as a patio at the seaward end of the caravan.
My body reacted immediately. It was instinctive. Desire swelled my cock with a visceral surge of lust that clamped me by the balls and actually caused a flare of griping in my guts. Light grey eyes above a straight nose and coral-pink lip gloss twinkled impishly at me. Albeit beautifully packaged in jeans and a pink bikini top, with shoulder length blue-black hair cut in a precise, level fringe, I recognised trouble when I saw it.
With the wisdom of hindsight I know what I should have done, the problem was she was too succulent to ignore; trouble I could handle … I thought.
Leeds or Wakefield I put her accent to be, West Yorkshire anyway. Not that I gave a shit about where she came from, she was here now, right in front of me …
Using her elbows the girl pushed up off the fence. Through the slats, spaced evenly like a toddler’s playpen, I could see the skin of her tummy, flat, flawless and impossibly smooth, with the glint of the obligatory jewel in her navel.
“Got a cig?” she repeated, moving along the railing to the little gate in the centre. Without waiting for an invitation the girl confidently pushed open the gate and stepped onto the decking planks.
Those jeans were a work of art, faded to wafer thinness and moulded to the cock-stiffening body beneath; slung so low in front that I knew, with absolute certainty, that her pudenda would be shaved bald as an egg.
She stood there, hip cocked, head tilted, and stared a challenge, smirking when she caught me perving at a place a good four inches below her belly-button.
“Well?” she demanded truculently, eyebrows arching upwards. I indicated the packet on the table in front of me. “Ta,” she said. I held my lighter out for her and she took a step closer, touching the back of my hand with hers as she lit up. “What you doing?” she asked directly.
“Writing,” I replied and wiped my forehead with a flannel I kept to hand for that sole purpose.
She moved closer to me, standing at my side as I sat there and concentrated on not licking the tanned and sweat-slippery skin between her jelly-mould tits. She leaned forwards, squinting at the lines on the screen. I leaned back in the canvas camping chair, precariously balanced on the rearward frame, and simply boggled at the sight of her perfect denim rump.
“What you writing about?” she asked, standing upright. I told her. “Fookin’ ‘ell … Really? You any good? Like famous or owt?” I admitted to some minor renown, having been recognised occasionally from dust jackets on the three precious Detective Inspector Ralph Regan novels.
“Not been on Jonathon Ross or Graham Norton,” I offered and gave what I hoped was a self-deprecating grin.
“Do you put anything mucky in it? Any dirty sex?” Her eyes gleamed and she drew on her cigarette. “Wow, a proper writer,” she went on without waiting for an answer. Her hand went to my shoulder as she leaned again, even closer than earlier, to the laptop and tried to read.
As the girl peered at the screen a group of a half dozen or so lads walked past. Instantly identifiable by their Geordie patois, a dialect of North East England that was almost incomprehensible to me; weekenders on the lash and on the pull, sniffing for hen parties or jaded divorcees, out for a laugh. I recognised the stereotype — tribal, loud and fearless. Either bare-chested, lurid tattoos resplendent, showy peacocks strutting for a mate, or wearing the black and white vertical stripes of ‘the Toon’ — Newcastle United F.C. I imagined their easy banter as they recklessly drove white transit vans or hefted scaffold poles during the workaday week.
“Gerraloadahur,” I heard one young man say; which I interpreted as: ‘get a load of her.’ “Fuckin’ fit or what!” I had to agree with the coarse sentiments. The girl was sublime.
“Could you put me in it?” The question brought me back from my study of her posterior. “The book, could you put me in as a character?”
For her? Of course I could.
We exchanged names and a potted history. A quick calculation told me that I’d been thirty when she was born. Fifty-three now, but I’d gone through two divorces and had been working for the paper when she’d first arrived. Her father owned several of the caravans on the site, they were down for the August bank-holiday weekend, making the most of the summer and checking that holiday residents hadn’t totally wrecked his investment.
“Make her really sexy,” the girl continued, talking about her fictional character. “Really sexy and hot … And make sure she gets some cock. Maybe two at the same time … Or have her take it up her arse …”
I admit I was shocked by such a profane outburst from such a divine mouth. But even the surprise didn’t stop the image I had in my head of this beauty in such a scene. There she was, in my head, legs in black stockings, perhaps a pair of thigh high boots — shiny black leather or PVC of course — suspender belt and all the trimmings …
A picture of her kneeling on a sumptuous bed, derriere aloft while she reached back to part her buttocks and reveal the muddy stain of her sphincter was etched in my brain. Her pink crevice would gape with heavy-lipped insouciance, frothing and dribbling with desire as she looked back at me, hair in a severe pony tail, while depraved and sordid commands slipped from her mouth.
That was the fantasy, and it could only be fantasy, the girl was Premier League, while I was in the pub leagues, on a Sunday, and the B-team at that …
Lost for any appropriate response, flabbergasted by the girl’s candid demeanour and apparent lack of modesty, all I managed was a creaky, “You’re a very provocative young lady.”
“Provocative,” she repeated, moving the word around her mouth, testing it. It seemed she liked the taste for she nodded, grinned approval and said: “I’ve never been called that before. I think it suits me; might have a tee-shirt printed up; if I ever become famous I could have a perfume named after it.”
She left me then. After dropping those images in my mind she grinned again, waggled her fingers, and bade me a cheery, “Tata.”
***
The next time I saw her she was wearing a denim skirt, a short, faded example that flattered her long legs, to whose length she’d added by about six inches by her choice of shoes. Writing had been impossible that afternoon. Every time I started a paragraph all I could think of was the girl’s suggestions for a carnal-based plot. In my head she assumed the role of femme fatale with a penchant for Greek style. Concentration became impossible and I fell back on a favoured trick of writers since the obsession began — I went for a drink.
The route I took paralleled the precipitous cliff edge with a view of the vast and primal sea to my right, while martial ranks of caravans paraded in open order to the left. Hopeful gulls wheeled and fought and squalled while the ever-present and sibilant sigh of the waves sounded two hundred feet down below. A couple of hundred yards beyond the camp edge was a purpose built commercial centre, all the immediate amenities were there; a small supermarket with bread, milk, canned goods, all of the usual available at an exorbitant, inflated fee. There was a fast-food chipper, a pub, and even the ubiquitous Starbucks, all the essentials for modern living.
I headed for the pub, one of those faux olde world places — plastic and full of false beams, burgers, chips, pizza and ersatz bonhomie. Patrons gathered around picnic tables in a chaotic mix of the geriatric, the middle-aged, and harassed younger couples on the cusp of domestic violence while their feral ran riot. Inside the pub it was relatively peaceful; there was football on the big screen, a few leathered die-hards perched on the stools at the bar, while behind the demarcation line of the counter a blowsy and bored-faced slattern with dyed blonde hair ignored me with impressive devotion to her craft.
Eventually, after an eye roll and a gargantuan sigh the barmaid donked a sullen pint on the counter-top, demanded payment equal to the price of a small economy car, and switched her expression back from downright hostile to merely surly. I wasted an hour and drank three pints before leaving the unsmiling barmaid and her desiccated and bent-backed customers perched like vultures atop their stools.
After picking up a half-a-dozen cans from the shop I wove my way back along the cliff-edge. The girl, thoughts of her, filled my head as I walked into the coming gloaming. The frank disclosure of her inner thoughts, the suggestions of depravity for her character in my novel fired my imagination and I craved carnal knowledge of that lusciousness as I’d not experienced for a decade or more. Agitated and nervy as an addict I lurched homeward.
With the bag of beers resting on the steps at the door of the caravan, with the key hovering in front of the mortise, I turned to the sound of click-clack, click-clack and saw the girl striding over the cracked and uneven paving slabs. She came closer and smiled as she halted. I noticed the shoes immediately; her legs, lithe and finely sculpted seemed to stretch impossibly long in those heels. They, and the skirt, which fell to the barest limit of modesty, caused that same primitive clamp of lust in my guts. Her eyes glinted with devilment and her lips, slightly parted, shone moistly in the little of the daylight that remained.
“Hiya,” she said, flicking her hair, which she now wore in a severe pony tail. I had to force down the urge to go to her and kiss that mouth.
It took a couple of attempts for me to get the key in the lock. Eventually I fumbled the thing a quarter turn clockwise and yanked the door open. The girl tottered unevenly up the three steps and followed me straight into the kitchen-cum-living room of the caravan. She stood, knock-kneed on her stilts and surveyed the interior of my erstwhile hermitage; she being the first visitor to cross the threshold other than the daily maid service since I’d owned the place.
“Through there,” I said, pointing to the door to her right after I’d flicked on a table light and she’d asked for the toilet. When she was gone I opened the fridge and pushed the cans inside. Before I shut the door, bent forward and my hand hovering over the tins, I called: “Drink?”
The toilet flushed and she reappeared. Taking a can the girl popped the tab and sucked at the foam that bubbled out.
“Got a cig?” she asked as she all but fell onto the stiff cushion of the long bench seat below the window. Taking my eyes off her legs I grabbed a packet off the ledge by the van door. I don’t usually smoke inside the caravan, there’s the fire risk for one thing but I also didn’t want the lingering rank odour. In this case I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want anything to put this girl off. It was difficult enough to believe she was actually here, never mind allow myself to imagine what might be on the cards. If she wanted to smoke she could smoke; if she wanted to squat and piss over the soft furnishings I’d not have objected. The sight of her thighs as the skirt ruched up to an indecent level was compensation enough and more.
Those legs crossed and the shoe aloft jerked in time to an invisible bass drum while her eyes regarded me and my guts melted. She smoked and stared at me. The silence ballooned. Deafening. My heartbeat lubbed in my ears as I looked first at her face and then, when I could take the eyes no longer, down to her midriff.
The man’s shirt knotted under her tits exposed her smooth stomach and I could see the rack of her ribcage as she leaned back into the cushion with her arms spread cruciform along the top edge. The skirt rode higher which dragged my gaze down to the soft skin of her inner thigh as she uncrossed and then re-crossed her legs. I took in the lean muscles of those long thighs and examined at some length her well-sculpted and tapering shanks.
“I reckon I’ve got ugly feet,” she said, stretching one smooth shin and turning it this way and that as she inspected her feet with a critical expression creasing her face.
Looking at her toes I could see no reason for her to be displeased. She set the foot on the floor alongside the other and, leaning forward, sucked at the cigarette before blowing a grey-blue stream at the ceiling and swigging at the can. Then she stared at me again in silence, with her hands hanging between her knees, the cigarette clamped between her fingers. I sipped at my own beer, rendered mute by her sheer sexual allure.
“Do you fancy me?” she asked eventually.
Unable to speak, my throat was so dry, I nodded.
She smiled at me then. Looking back it could have been malicious, but all I saw was pearlescent teeth and an opportunity that would never present itself again. A memory of Amsterdam and a gorgeous beauty in a window came to mind. Under normal circumstances, any social setting, pub, wedding reception, office party, she would have been unattainable for a man of my paunch, hairline and advancing years, but a quick muttering of a business arrangement and she was mine for thirty minutes. What sullied the transaction for me, despite the young woman being a superb example of feminine pulchritude from a purely chauvinistic point of view, was that the entire affair was totally devoid of feeling; there was an absolute freeze of intimacy. In a bizarre reversal of roles it was I who felt like a slab of meat as, with dull-eyed disinterest she stripped and revealed her body, gave my genitalia a cursory fondling — enough to get me semi-erect — before rolling a condom over my cock and, to my immense distaste, attempted to suck the rubber-coated stalk. In the end, after she’d piled on the chagrin by sliding lube over her opening in full view, I climbed aboard and fucked into her ironing board style, absolutely no kissing allowed, until I squirted my dissatisfaction into the johnny. I’d only just dressed and slammed the door behind me before she was back, perched on her stool, ready to snare the next aging lothario with a hundred euros in his wallet.
The girl crunched the fag end into the top of the beer tin and dropped the butt inside. She stood and casually untied the knot of the shirt front. The garment gaped and gave occasional glimpses of her breasts as she slowly moved. Dispelling any thought of unsatisfactory arrangements with Dutch prostitutes the girl came to me as I sat gawping on my own bench seat. She hitched the skirt up around her hips, knickerless beneath, straddled my lap, her knees denting the unforgiving foam under the scratchy fabric, and lowered her mouth to me.
She tasted of cigarettes and alcohol and I devoured her.
Her skin felt so soft and perfect under my fingers as I pushed my hands under the shirt and ran my hands up the narrow flanks of her back. She gasped into my mouth when I lifted her tight tits with my thumbs and cupped them both before sucking each precise, round and pebble-perfect nipple in turn.
“Oh … Dear … God,” I muttered when, after she rolled off my lap to sprawl awkwardly across the narrow cushion, she opened her legs and invited me to touch the sodden mush of her sex with my fingers.
“Touch me, touch me, touch me,” she implored, both breathless and strident at the same time. “Oh yeah, touch it. I want you to touch it. Finger me. Finger my cunt.”
I heard a strange noise and then, to my surprise, recognised the sound as a growl coming from my own throat, an atavistic voicing of desire. Sliding to kneel like a supplicant on the thin carpet, I unceremoniously gripped the girl’s waist and hefted her into a position where she rested on her lumbar balanced on the cushion edge. Her body was jack-knifed at an almost ninety degree angle with her chin on her chest and she stared down along the frontage of her body at me as I hooked my hands at the back of her knees and splayed her legs high and wide. Her sex pouted in a hot and scarlet maw of lust with the piss-flaps hanging like weighty rinds of flesh; I’d never seen anything so fucking wanton in my life before.
My cock stiffened to a tensile rod as I slurped and slobbered like a hound at that glutinous ooze. Her hands replaced mine as she held her legs apart and I tongued her slit from apex to rectum. Using my fingertips I parted her buttocks and dabbed at her sphincter as best I could in that awkwardness.
In response, the girl pushed me away with a curse. She stood up, tottering precariously on the heels, and rucked the skirt to a rope around her waist. The shirt was flung across the room and I gaped with an expression of slack-jawed amazement at her unblemished body, a superbly crafted example of divine art. The girl narrowly missed giving me the Trotsky treatment as she hauled a leg and a heel as murderous as a mafia hitman’s blade in a high parabola over my head and knelt on the bench seat while her palms rested on the wall. With her cheek pressed to the cushion and with her looking down at me under an outstretched arm she hefted her buttocks towards the ceiling.
It was the attitude I’d imagined her in only a few hours earlier. The surroundings were less salubrious, but the subject was far superior to the two dimensional image I’d envisioned.
“Lick my arse,” she muttered, her voice dark and treacly as befitted my mood.
My tongue squirmed deep into her rectum after I splayed the girl’s cheeks with my thumbs and got at the tight and puckered dot. She blurted a sob and babbled about what I was doing to her being lovely, dirty, and so fuckin’ mucky …
Primordial urges surged through me. I wanted to unzip my jeans and just plunge my cock into the scarlet core of her sex. Instead, somehow controlling myself, I used first a forefinger and then its neighbouring middle digit inside the heat of her opening. Wriggling and curling the fingers I hefted myself to a crouch as I traced a snail trail of licks and butterfly kisses along the track of the girl’s spine. At her neck, as she lowered her head in an attitude of prayer and exposed the vulnerable nape to me, I grazed my teeth over the skin before taking a vampiric, and what would prove to be evidential, taste.
“Don’t mark me,” she warned with a whimper.
My mind missed the significance of this instruction since was it was filled with other matters but I simply lifted my teeth from the indented flesh and squirmed my fingers deeper into her body, screwing them around, searching for the rough place inside her. I added my thumb to the equation and rubbed the ball over the slippery bud of her clitoris. Her head lifted and her face turned towards mine. I saw the heavy-lidded glaze of her own desire on her face as she pressed her torso against me and reached for my belt buckle. My fingers came out of her sodden opening smeared with lust when, in an act I found to be even more stimulating than licking her anus or feeling her body clench around my expeditionary fingers, she kissed me for the second time.
Her hands came to my cheeks while our tongues slid and coiled in a surprisingly tender meeting. During the hiatus, and while I savoured the intimacy of the kiss, her fingers unbuckled my belt and popped the button. Then she unzipped my jeans and pushed the waist down my thighs.
“Fuckin’ hell,” she cried when my cock nudged her forearm. “You’re so fuckin’ stiff!” She gripped my cock at its root and waved it around as though checking it was really made of flesh and blood. “I’ve never seen one so hard … What did you do — pop a Viagra?” Her eyes widened, her mouth gaped with astonishment, and she reached for my shirt buttons.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I said as I placed my hands over hers. “I’m fifty-three …” The confidence was beginning to ebb, even my tumescence wilted slightly. “… I’m not all toned and buff like those fellows who walked by this morning. I’d hate to … disappoint you.”
“I ‘aven’t been disappointed so far,” she replied. “But you can leave it on if you like. Got any johnnies?”
What did I need condoms for? I’d come up to write, not pick up women and fuck them. Besides I’d had a vasectomy years ago while I was still with my third wife. There might be a pack of three in a drawer down in the London house, but not here. Her face crumpled a little when I gave her the news. Ardour cooled and she fell away from me. We sat on the cushions and just looked at one another.
She stood, and with me staring at her nudity, walked to the counter where she picked up the cigarettes, lit one and then reached into the fridge for a beer. I could only ogle her derriere and long legs as she bent to the low shelf for the can.
With the image of her lounging legs crossed and still wearing those fire engine red shoes imprinted on my brain, I scurried along the cliff top hoping desperately that the shop would still be open. The sight of her with a cigarette burning between her fingers with a vulgar tin of beer held in the other hand as she’d reclined on the furniture had been as erotic and arousing as anything I’d known before. No high-end courtesan could have elicited such an arterial burst of longing as that girl; she was a coarse, vulgar, two-up and two-down West Yorkshire scrubber but I had to have her.
The susurration of the inky dark waves at the base of the cliffs and the twinkling lights of a ship hanging suspended and celestial in the shadow of the night would usually be enough to bring on a philosophical state of ponderment, but not that night; even as the first heavy ballbearings of rain fell I was hurrying near breathless back to the caravan.
She was still there, sipping the beer and running a languid hand through the folds of her sex when I burst through the doorway. Bullets of rain studded against the caravan roof and I fingered the little film-wrapped box in my jeans pocket. Thunder cracked and split the night outside with a simultaneous crackle of lightning, a harbinger of apocalypse that was coming my way — if I’d only known.
Inside the van the girl just smirked at me with a feline squint and curled lips.
“Come over here and lick me again,” she said over the rain machine gunning against the roof.
I went to her and knelt. The filth poured out of her mouth, a sewer of language that both appalled and excited me. The words she used to describe what she wanted me to do were shocking. Cunt was a word I used very infrequently, but it seemed the girl wasn’t so reserved.
After a few short minutes of me on my knees with my tongue and fingers busily engaged against her sex the girl, wild-eyed and panting with exertion, pushed me away from her body and then hauled me face to face by the shirt front while I knelt between her widespread thighs. She kissed me ferociously, sucking at my tongue while reaching down between our bodies for my belt.
This time, after shirt buttons had pinged across the confined living space, the girl kissed away any protestations of modesty I may have been inclined to utter. She bullied me to my feet and, while mewling tiny bursts of impatience, yanked my jeans down to my knees and ordered me to remove them completely. With my erection waggling in front of me I complied, throwing my socks onto the carpet as well.
Moving with a seductive, feminine sway of her hips, the girl led the way along the short, narrow corridor to what passed for the main bedroom. The small area was taken up almost entirely by a double bed, with there being just an eight inch gap at either side. The mirror that made up the sliding door frontage to in-built the wardrobe caused a peal of appreciative laughter from the girl.
“Did you bring ’em?” she asked.
I nodded and showed her the packet I’d recovered from my jeans pocket. This time there was a long pause between the roll of thunder and the flash of lightning. The girl clambered onto the bed and leaned over to flick the light switch. In that position, on all fours, her stomach muscles taut, her tits like little cups and her rump elevated, she turned to face me. It was a pose worthy of a centrefold and I growled low and deep with lust.
She noticed my expression and made a tiny moue with her lips as she crossed one shin over the calf of her other leg, raised those shoes off the bed cover and pouted: “Put one on. Roll on a johnny and get behind me.” She wriggled her rump and chuckled. “Up the arse,” she said without ceremony. “I want it up there and I wanna watch it in that mirror. Fuckin’ ‘hell that’d be so sexy … Seein’ a cock right up my arse.”
As I fumbled with wrapping on the packet with hands trembling from a mix of anticipation, performance anxiety and plain old lust, I managed — just — to roll one of the slippery little bastards over my cock head. For a moment I’d thought I’d ruptured the febrile sheath, but eventually, with my vulcanised erection at high port I went to her.
“What about lube?” I asked as I positioned myself on my knees behind her.
“Put it in my cunt first. Fuck me in there and then, when it’s all wet, I want it in my arse.”
Her body closed around my shaft as I sank into that part of her. I held her hips and savoured the moment while she moaned and sighed and used expletives that would shock a merchant seaman. Withdrawing a couple of inches, looking down at where her labia clung to me, I could see that lubrication wouldn’t be an issue when the moment came to take her anally. Our bodies slapped together with a meaty thwack when I pushed back into her and soon after I was using her cunt for the pure joyous pleasure of fucking a young beauty such as she.
“No,” she warned. “Not like this. I want you to do me up the arse. Fuck me there; it’s so much filthier than cunt fucking. I want to be bad tonight. Make me into a bad girl. Fuck me in my dirty hole …”
Crouching over the girl I managed to aim the head of my cock at her anus. Her piss-flaps hung loose and sticky with the ooze which freely sluiced from the girl’s opening. Urgent whimpers came from her as I nudged, reluctant to push straight inside for fear of hurting her and, perhaps realising the reason for my hesitation, she used her fingers to smear the gloop around her sphincter.
I aimed at the spot again and this time, after a momentary reluctance as her body tried to repel the insistent probing, the head of my cock popped the ring of her anus and slid part way in. The girl gasped and clawed at the bed.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
She mumbled something incoherent but nodded her head and I eased more of my erection into that dark and taboo place. The girl groaned and murmured encouragement as thunder sounded in the far distance somewhere over the sea now. A momentary thought of what it would be like on board the ship I’d seen earlier flickered briefly, before a rearward push from the girl brought me back to the surreal present. A beautiful young woman, one of the most desirable girls I’d seen in my life was below me, with her backside in the air, and I had my erection wedged deep in her anus. Somehow I couldn’t see the Detective Inspector Ralph Regan character in my novels getting this lucky, but it was back to the task in hand.
With thumb tips touching at her spine my hands almost circumnavigated the girl’s waist and I crouched above her like a hunch-backed beast. Looking across to the mirror I caught sight of her regarding our reflection in profile. Her eyes flicked up to stare into mine for long seconds. The sense of power I experienced in those few seconds spurred me to cruelty. The urge to slam my cock into the young woman overwhelmed me; I wanted to tear her sphincter ragged; to leave her panting on the bed with her anus a ruined and gaping purple-bruised chasm. In response to this brutal impulse I stabbed my erection into her, reaching with one hand to yank savagely on the pony tailed hair.
“Fuck yes,” she cried in reaction. “Do it to me. Fuck my arse … Fuck it hard. Damage me.” Her cries became strident and even through the blur of my own carnal desires I wondered about neighbouring caravans and the prospect of being overheard.
Again I looked at our reflection and saw her expression. She loved what I was doing. The rougher the better it seemed. The girl’s eyes were squinted closed, her lower lip was hidden by her teeth as she chewed in ecstasy at her own flesh and, as I struggled against the treacherous surge of my climax, her eyes opened and she stared belligerently into my own eyes in a fierce challenge to do my worst.
“Oh God,” I groaned. It would all be over too soon if I came. There had to be some way to stave off the rush of my semen. But I wanted to; the joy of release as my goo squirted into the teat of the condom tip … “No,” I grunted to myself.
“Yes!” the writhing, bucking creature impaled on my cock, called. “Keep fucking my arse. I love it … It’s so different. It’s filled me, your cock has stuffed me and I want to push it out … It’s so bad, so wicked, so dirty …”
Desperate to prolong the time with the girl I tried to fathom why she’d been so insistent about anal sex. It was an unusual predilection, at least in my experience. My second wife indulged after drinking gin; the reason for her tendency towards taking it up her shitter after imbibing of that particular spirit never became apparent either — something to do with her boarding school she’d allude in a vague, arm-waving-of-no-import fashion, red-faced and evasive in more sober times when questioned. But why would a gorgeous twenty-something like the young woman of the here and now demand it, of me of all the men on the caravan site? And how did she acquire the taste?
Her face in the mirror, twisted with her own reaching for completion …
I knew I couldn’t hold on. It was too much to bear. Her eyes; her lips; the tight grip of that ring of muscle around the root of my cock …
“I can’t,” I gasped and pulled out of that grip.
“No!” she screamed, face contorted with surprise at first, then disappointment, and finally, fury. “Not yet, you cunt, don’t take it out yet …” Free of my stake pinned in her arse, the woman rolled onto her side. “Put it back in,” she demanded, her fingers sloshing through her labia. “Lie down …” She wriggled her rump across the bed, positioning herself with forethought. “… and get behind me and put it back in. I can watch it in the mirror. I want to see it going in.”
As I stood in the narrow gap between the bed and the interior partition I realised, as I moved to comply with the woman’s instructions, that I’d lost the condom. Looking between the girl’s legs as she held her uppermost foot, still in the shoe, high in the air, I could see the johnny hanging out of her sphincter like some vile parasite.
“Uh,” I grunted, indicating with a wave of my hand.
She only laughed and pulled the thing clear of her rectum when I pointed the problem out to her.
Dropping the offending article to the floor, she ordered: “Put another on. Then come here and fuck me again. Don’t take it out until I’ve wanked an orgasm out of my clit either you bastard. No more fucking about. Get it in …”
With the urgency cooled by the interval and the necessity to roll the second condom over my cock I positioned myself on the bed behind the girl and, after she rolled forward, legs closed but buttocks parted with her fingertips to expose the wink of her anus to me, I eased the bulb of my cock head into her.
She sighed and opened her legs to lay the top one over my thigh, thus exposing our reflected coupling to her sight.
“Oh fucking hell,” she muttered. “Look at that! Look at how tight I am around your cock. I love it. It’s so fucking bad. I wish I had a picture of it. Imagine being able to look at that whenever I wanted …”
It did look good. My cock appeared thick and huge jammed as it was with three quarters of its length inside the girl’s body. The ring of her sphincter was stretched around the girth of my erect cock as I held the girl’s arse cheeks wider and fucked in and out of her dirty hole, the ridge of the penile raphe was so pronounced it looked like a piece of gristle had been melded to the underside of the shaft.
“You like it?” I grunted.
“Oh …” she whimpered. “Oh yes, I love it … You feel so stiff inside me. I feel full, stuffed with cock. Looking at it, at us, joined there … That thing just stretching me and fucking me and, oh …”
My world blurred. In one moment I was yanking on the girl’s hair, making her cry out with pain and pleasure before we kissed in a frenzy of our own personal needs. Then I was holding her tight waist and slamming into her body and I could see my swinging balls bumping up against her skin. I watched as the girl fingered her clitoris, eliciting squeal after scream of delight as, finally, her climax, percolating for what felt like an age, boiled over.
“Oh fuck,” she wailed, clamping her knees together with her wrist trapped between. “I’m coming. I’m doing it … Fuck my arse. Tear it apart Split me in two. Just … Just …”
The rain, which had cooled the air down to tolerable a level, beat its persistent tattoo atop the van. I held tight to the girl’s hip and craned my head forward to first kiss her neck and then, forgetting her earlier objection, bit into her skin again. She didn’t notice as she thrashed and wailed in the throes of her own climax. Then grunting hugely I let myself go and groaned a long and heartfelt expression of relief while my seed spurted into the prophylactic encasing my cock.
We lay joined together while we calmed until my deflated penis slid out of her body. Taking care to hold the suddenly repulsive condom and its glutinous, cooling contents by the reinforced ring, I eased away from the young woman. With a grimace of distaste I dropped the thing to the floor while she rolled to look at me.
“Oh fuck,” she murmured. “Wasn’t that just …”
I nodded agreement; it had been. She leaned her face closer to mine and shuffled her body along until I could slide an arm under her neck and we could kiss. A sudden and overwhelming emotion brought pricks of tears to my eyes. At that moment, in the beautiful and passionate girl’s arms she could have asked me for anything and I would have done my utmost to grant her wish. The kiss lengthened and I poured all of my tenderness into the act; I wanted the girl to know how much she affected me; I wondered if she felt it too. Savouring the texture of her skin under my fingers I let my hands slide over every inch of her I could reach with our mouths locked like that. The kiss broke momentarily and I gently eased her onto her back and took each of the pebbled nipples between my lips and sucked gently. The feel of her taut breasts caused a quickening in my cock, she sensed my arousal when I returned my mouth to hers and the kissing grew heated.
“I need a drink of water,” she said. “Just a quick drink and then we can …” She grinned at me as she eased her athletic body from the bed. While she stood at the sink in the kitchenette and swallowed water from a glass I eased behind her and moulded my aging body to her firm perfection, my cock nudging under her buttocks. “That’s nice,” she murmured and leaned her head back onto my shoulder as my arms encircled her waist. She chuckled. “You’re getting stiff again, you randy bastard.”
“It’s you,” I mumbled into her hair. The scent of her shampoo filled my senses and my cock thickened and grew to nudge at her vulva. “You’re so beautiful, and so sexy … I’ve never met anyone like you. I can’t believe you’re here with me. And doing what we did …”
She snipped the thread of romance with easy words. “There’s one condom left. It’d be a pity to waste it. Take me back to bed and we can fuck again …”
Thwarted in my perhaps sentimental efforts to influence her emotionally I followed her back to the bedroom. She posed, smiling as she stood with her back to me, her curves emphasised in silhouette, and she eyed me coquettishly over her shoulder. With the lust pumping through my veins and infusing my erection even further, I slowly went to her and reached for her hair. I lifted the pony tail and twisted its length in my fist. She gasped as her head jerked back. Fire sparked in her eyes and her mouth fell open.
“Are you going to do it to me,” she goaded. “Are you man enough to make me come again? Think you’re fit enough to manage?”
Pulling her hair again I kissed her mouth to shut her up; her challenge was turning me on and I wanted to control the pace. If she managed to use her potty-mouth too much she’d have me squirting cum way too soon.
The thin elastic rolled off her hair and I let it drop. “Stay there,” I ordered. “Don’t move.” She obeyed to my surprise, simply turning ninety degrees to face the mirror from the foot of the bed while I clambered across, grabbed the condom packet and tore at the foil. By the time I was back to her my cock was rubberised again. I bade her put her hands on the face of the mirror, mindless about smeared handprints, uncaring. Even with her in those shoes I had to squat a little as I eased my cock head at the opening to her sex.
“What …?” she blurted. “My cunt … Not in my cunt.”
“Just getting it juicy,” I replied in a soothing voice and stroked her hair with one hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll be invading your bung-hole again soon.”
“Yes,” she hissed. “Talk dirty to me. The dirtier the better. I love it.”
A look in the mirror at her reflection told me how worked up she was now. I could see it in her eyes, the twist of her lips, the sneer of desire that so closely resembled hate. Her ardour infected me and I pushed into the sodden heat of her while I forced her face around as far as I could make her by cupping her chin in my hand and digging my fingers into her cheeks.
“Kiss me, you common little scrubber,” I grunted. “Kiss me while I use your slippery cunt for sex.” The girl groaned into my mouth and she began to push back onto my probing erection. I released her face and the girl gasped as her head fell forward and her hands squeaked down the mirrored surface of the wardrobe door.
“That’s it,” she panted. “Tell me … tell me what you’re going to do …”
“When I’m ready,” I snarled, “and when my cock’s wet with your bubbling cunt, I’m going to take us to the bed and I’m going to lie with my cock upright and you can watch your arse stretch around it as you slide down.” A sob burst from her mouth. “Would you like that? Would you enjoy watching your sphincter being stretched?”
“Oh fuck … Yes!”
“You’ll be able to see your whore’s cunt gaping and dripping. Would you finger yourself while my cock’s jammed up your dirty hole?”
She whimpered her agreement while her fingers clawed uselessly at the glass.
My lubricated erection slid into the dark part of her without restriction. When fully embedded, deep inside her body, she squealed with a mix of delight and fear when I hefted her bodily into the air by first her thighs and finally by hooking my hands under the hinge of her knees.
“Look at that,” she mumbled.
It was better than I’d hoped. Even in the relatively dim light from behind us, as I peered over the girl’s shoulder I could see her anus wedged tight with meat.
“You like to see it, don’t you?”
“I love it. It really makes me squirmy seeing that.”
The reason for all this could wait. I hoped to see the girl again and would be able to interview her as to how she’d come to this particular fondness. And again, why with me?
As I stepped back to maintain our precarious positioning, my calves hit the edge of the bed and down we went onto the mattress. The girl cursed as we temporarily disengaged and she scrambled over my prostrate form. A few seconds later, positioned above me, she sighed as once again, she lowered herself onto my stalk.
We settled into a flesh-slapping rhythm of exchanged expletives. I couldn’t see what aroused her so much, but the girl kept up a foul-mouthed litany of description. She hovered above my recumbent form, leaning back over me and resting her weight on her outstretched arms while her long hair brushed ad swayed across my face. Eventually tiring, and with a desire to masturbate, she lowered her body heavily across mine and rolled onto her side.
This movement caused the condom to slide off my stalk. I was in such a fever-pitch of arousal that I no longer cared. The problem was that she hadn’t noticed my sudden state of undress, and I was in such a desperate and urgent state of mind that I concocted a hasty and foolhardy plan. I manoeuvred close behind her as she rubbed at herself and urged me to put it back in her arse.
“What are you doing!” she cried when she felt my cock head against her labia. “Not in there. Not in my cunt. Put it back in my arse!”
“Just got to get it slippery again. I want it to just glide in …” The raw heat of her engulfed my cock as I slipped inside her opening bareback. “Oh shit,” I grunted. “You’re too beautiful …” The surge swelled and I couldn’t stop it. There was nothing I could do to halt the inevitable tide.
To compound the crime I leaned in and bit her neck hard. The girl squealed and wriggled and then she began to shout as she felt the sting of my teeth and my pulsing cock.
“No!” she screamed. Her nails rent bloody gauges along my flank where she clawed at me. “You bit me … And you’re coming in my cunt … No … no, no no …”
“I’m sorry,” I moaned even as the stuff squirted out of me. “You’re too beautiful. The condom slid off. I was going to put it back in your arse but I just came when I felt you naked and hot around me … I’m sorry. Please …”
“You fucking pig,” she spat, eyes aflame. “You bit me.” She rubbed the purpling on her neck. “And I’ve got spunk dripping out of my cunt. Why did you do that?”
“I …” I began but she was already stalking from the bedroom. I’m sorry,” I whined. “I didn’t mean to do it. I’m really sorry, but you won’t get pregnant. I’ve had the snip. I’ve got no swimmers. It’ll be OK. I’m clean too. You won’t get anything nasty off me. Please don’t go. Not yet, not like this. Please!”
The door slammed and she left me naked, ooze dripping from the eye of my cock. I’d find her in the morning. I’d ask around and find her, talk to her. Hopefully when she’d had time to cool off she’d begin to understand.
***
“… Arresting you on suspicion of sexual assault …” They let me dress properly, put on socks and shoes. Then they clamped the handcuffs on me and led me to the car. ” … You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court …”
My brief told me that it wasn’t her father that owned the vans, it was her husband. Her going back to him, filled with spunk and bruised about the neck …?
She came out with the first thing she thought of.