Friday, 14 May 2010


The grey hard domed stone cobbles offered me nothing of the romance the guidebook promised. Romance is in the eye of the person who is looking on and wanting. Standing alone with pangs of wants, a full wallet, and a full belly. No one to share things with. Every one is holding hands and sauntering. I need something today. Haven’t quite decided in what guise today's stimuli will present its self. Not decided if a sexual encounter, a violent one or... is there another type? I can wait a while.

The sun lingers on the skyline as I take in the smells and sights of this mad city. You could just pass right on by, snapping and looking, snapping and chatting. Very few people actually look up and down, tourists seem to be doing just A too B, eyes transfixed into their little time out guide, lonely planet. Fucking would be if you just stuck to the hurriedly scribbled rubbish some geek has stolen from a pile of research material in Sheffield's reference Library. I will spare you my thoughts on guidebooks. I thought the title "Rough Guide" was a gritty down to earth honest type of book. Seems not, take it literally; the fucker is just a rough guide!!

Standing on the Chain bridge over looking the infamous mass of brown seething water they call the Danube. Does have a ring doesn't it. The Danube. I decide on Buda. Not my new Zen style approach to attitude you no, the little fat guy who is always smiling. No, Buda as opposed to Pest. You didn't no the city was divided by the Danube did you, it is.

Szechenyi lanchid (chain bridge) what a weird and gorgeous language. The map I have, a tourist map I might add, hasn't a fucking word of English on it at all, too boot there is a distinct lack of street signs.

I had a brief itinerary, not as brief as I envisaged. At times like this I wish I actually smoked, would like to lean against the corner of Hunyadi janos ut and Franklin u and roll a cigarette. See the smoke spiral away on the warm breeze. They were street names by the way.

Just about to treat myself to a nice little pavement café and I hear unmistakable notes of a string instrument meandering along the cold cobles. A serene mix of city and cello. Never really been one for classical strings and the like, however, I find myself like the pied pipers rats, where and who is the musician? On a small patch of browning grass an image is presented to me that will truly last me for the rest of my life. Her hair, black as night. Perfect and shiny, full and confidant. Loose, unmanaged yet perfectly suitable for the impression she was creating. A navy blue tunic with what I am sure are coat tails falling over the most perfectly proportioned thighs I have seen for several years, in fact I would go as far as saying she was physically on a par with myself. The heels of her shoe accentuate her sculptured calves. A woman playing a cello with what appears to be no skirt on, either that or it's well hitched so not to impede her ability to open her legs to allow her instrument to nestle and ease its self into position for the sounds it can create. She looks up and smiles, she slightly arches her spine and her breasts strain against her blouse, she bows the strings with precision, slowly, the notes cascade over my goose pimples. Eyes and smiles exchanged for a full minute until a crescendo, when a little frantic head and arm movement snap me from my thoughts and I think she is a twat. What an ungainly instrument for a woman. Turning to find the little café I promised myself a few minutes ago a single yellow rose lands at my left foot. Turning to discover the source of my rose, we again make full eye contact. Her hair is tussled and shadowing her face. She looks fucking smouldering. I'm thinking maybe it would be rather nice if we were to be acquainted, be nice to be accompanied to my café. Looking down onto the warm glowing easy, hard stone cobbles I decide I will introduce myself to my musician.

My hand offered "Elizabeth Fox"

She stops playing, collects her bow with her left hand and a little clatter of wood on wood, accepts my hand, slowly bends and traces the back of my hand with her relaxed lips. Her eyes closed, the moment lasts a good two weeks. Shall I scoop her hair, cup her face and kiss? Not yet. She expertly dispenses with any sensuality with a long lick of my wrist. We burst out laughing, nervously maybe, but mutual laughter all the same. I notice her thigh bicep shudder as she leans to place the cello in his hard case, plastered with stickers, some peeled some new. She can't unscrew the little wing nut that secures the instruments height adjustment spike. I kneel at her knees, naked and so perfectly smooth, I repay her with a sensual French kiss on her right knee, she accepts and gently strokes my face as I snog and mouth her glistening flesh, again we burst into fits of nervous laughter and a string of saliva embarrassingly tight ropes form my chin. With one of her tunic tails its gone. I like.

Her hand offered "Madeleine Hershel"

"My pleasure Madeleine"

"I no, mine too"

I help with the oversized instrument and am told to leave it right there, at my bemusement she tells me there is little to no street crime and he lives here. We pat him. And move away.

The reality and sensibility of what I was doing crossed my mind, I looked towards Miss Hershel, she had no need to return the look, I care not of any sensibilities.

The streets narrowed, full leafed trees over hung creating a living canopy, a sanctuary. She stopped, turned me slightly, faced me. I could feel her sweet breath on my lips.

‘I want you to meet someone, a close friend, perfection personified. They write, have a beautiful imagination, an open desire for experience, are you happy?’

‘Happy? Yes’

I was throbbing, the tips of my fingers numb yet tingling, ever pore on my body felt as though a million fairies were tickling and touching.

She led me into a slightly darker gothic passageway between two crumbling ornate old houses where, I could see the figure of someone leant against the icy cold shaded stonewall. We approached confidently my heart beating so loudly it blurred my thoughts; I was terrified I would faint.

We stood before the figure. Hooded. Male or female, I wasn’t sure, I didn’t care. Madeline expertly opened the hooded gown.

My heart stopped. My world slowed, stopped spinning, jerked occasionally. I wanted to speak. I couldn’t even exhale. The figure in the gown looked at me, I couldn’t see the colour of her eyes, just their radiance and willingness to be pleasured, to please. Her figure, an artist’s creation. Her perfectly stockinged beautifully shaped slender legs, hips and waist a creation by Michelangelo, her breasts heaving within a black lace basque, nipples obviously aroused by the texture of the lace. She closed her eyes and Madeline guided my hand to her quivering breasts. I turned my palm in anticipation. Gently, expertly fondling a complete strangers breast in fucking Budapest. Madeline was tracing her nails over her hips, her legs started to cross, her body squirming against our hands. Madeline stopped quite abruptly. She removed my hands.

‘Miss Fox, may I introduce you to my close friend and yours………. Ruby’

Monday, 7 December 2009


The scene was terrifying. I managed to glimpse his face as the vehicle passed me, I was frozen, glued, terrified, stood on the very edge of the curb, teetering with my life, toes contorted through oil, and heat resistant dunlop rubber soled, metal toe boots, toes curled trying to save my life. His facial expression told of the searing moments of his torrid life passing past his eyes in mili seconds. Was he mentally bidding farewell to his family as he passed me, face contorted into grotesque contortions, fear acquainted with complete uncontrol of vehical management. 

I struggled with the feelings he must have been fleetingly experiencing. The fear etched on his brow, lips stretched taut over white gums, yellowing teeth grinding. The wheel, irrespective of which way he turned it, delivered no fucking real time direction of the vehical. I close my eyes and my mind and third senses wait for gut churning twisting shearing metallic ripping, crunching ????…….. Tunes.

They never come………. Is he alive? Did he survive?

I open my eyes and step from the curb. He is gone………. With a little amazement and confusion, a little glee to boot. I deliberate the horror passed. However, I feel enlightened and happy. A little sad. I never ever wish to be in that position. Ever.

If ever…. Reversing out of a disabled parking place in Morrison creates such a head fuck for me. Shoot me NOW.

Thursday, 26 November 2009

Cold Stone

Cold Stone
Damp cracked pavements: dank and strewn with the litter relics of a busy day. Market traders and fly sellers, shell suits and poorly copied CD’s. Railway station atmospherics, fume odours and old urine. The poor orange glow cast by a stained, sodium-filled streetlight tries to warm the stately Victorian railway arch. It fails, instead creating an eerie underworld; a blend of Exorcist and Elm Street, Jack the Ripper’s White Chapel: a seedy, empty, nervous place only frequented at night by those with a purpose. Nobody passes through here by accident, they come to cheaply absorb the ambiance and wonder, if? Fuel for later thoughts maybe, they sit scared and confident behind side impact bars and seven air bags. Tinted windows don’t work here, even when closed tight. Get out from behind the armour of your car. I dare you.
A torn centre sheet from a well-thumbed newspaper blows from wall to curb, rolling and turning, straightening and folding in the wind. Stained with the waste collected on its travels, it slowly and gently rests with a purpose, as if deciding to slow a little; the contrast from turmoil to calm in the gusts makes uncomfortable contrast. It rests with attitude and resignation against the black patent leather heel of a confident stiletto shoe: a woman’s shoe. The heel: powerful and self-assured, is complimented with a silver steel strip down its spine. It glints, portrays strength, evokes thoughts of eroticism. Eroticism? So deeply embedded in contradiction. The place suits not the shoe.
A thousand years of man’s desires captured in a heel.
The red brick railway arch is fifty yards deep and as high. Piles of empty cardboard boxes wait for collection at one end, loosely discarded by faceless drones from 5 am to 10 pm. Faceless drones, odd and bent, small and dysfunctional, always busy doing nothing; leaning on a broom, a stained high-visibility fluorescent vest poorly fitted around the putridly-fed straining belly of a wizened, aged working class philosopher, roll up never lit enough to allow a full draw of tobacco. Foreign cheap tobacco is always too moist. How odd.
The arch is gloomy and poorly lit. Broken, ornate, cast iron down pipes seep their cargo and the rainwater provides Salvador Dali reflections and dungeon ambience. Long full waste bins spew into the road. Bustling traders and illegal sellers long gone, their vans packed and over loaded with Burberry, addidas and Calvin Klein. Shell suits; perish the thought. White ones, with a nice stripe on the leg, worn proudly with a white peaked cap.
The choking fumes of poorly maintained engines gradually clear on the breeze that is exploring the arches. Cars still fill the streets like ants, all working to a common theme but none ever even acknowledging each other’s existence, just the occasional horn sounding its frustration. The paper moves off in the wind to continue its journey of contrast. An old bus stripped of its advertising hoardings, full of bobbing heads and vacant eyes continues on its journey.
Brain dead commuters tired of smiles and falsities during their dead head days at work, the monotonous bumps and whines of the bus tranquillising their motivation. The interior lights of the bus allow me a glimpse of a tall, strong, experienced, professional lady, standing strong and available. A thousand nights under her hat. All weathers, all ways. Never again to be shocked or appalled at the depravity of the human race. The man. The male.
There is an inner aura. A massively self-assured aura. So much aura most are immediately intimidated and dare not even look. Those that aren’t fazed merely pay to appreciate cheap perfection. Her hair: black, natural, full and strong. The quality of her hair is contrasting for her profession, over the shoulder and tantalising. Her face, although expressionless, transfixes and has so much depth she is hypnotic. Her green eyes are her heart and soul, so deep. Alluring and easing. Teasing and forgiving. Inviting and fear-inducing at the same time. How can anyone match the thoughts she must have shelved. Been there done that. Again and again. Each time the mental blinds are pulled further down. Where does she start and finish? A long black coat gently sheathes a perfectly shaped and muscled physique, a classically shaped lady. A Woman. Breasts, waist, hips and attitude. Hours of walking and standing have conditioned a perfect waist, calves and thighs.
A pair of natural tone seamed stockings sit perfectly straight on the most touchable pair of legs. Legs to stand and admire for an age. No need to touch. Close your eyes and slowly allow nose and lip the grace of a gentle touch, close your eyes and anticipate the contact. Trace the curve of a perfect calve. The clean smell of silk. The cool clean cut of contrast. But you dare not venture higher than her knee. You glance; you stir as the stocking tone lightens as her muscled thigh starts to curve and shape. You stir as the clean smell of silk graces your senses again.
She is skirted in black, bloused in blood red satin. Blouse slightly taught against a full natural firm breast. Nipples showing as the situation heightens and she is aware of our imminent intent. Yes - our. Arm in arm we are venturing very close to the edge, so close adrenaline is fuelling the mind and reality is another age away. A very knowing glance and eyes meet only for a few seconds for confirmation. No need. The time is now. Not all treasure is silver and gold.
The woman is approached with trepidation and fear, unfounded confidence filling the air with unrealities. We are superior and better, why then are we so nervous, why do we feel inadequate? A mass of black, full, immaculately maintained hair protects delicate features; cupid bow red lips give away no feeling. Her lip twitches; I like to think her lip betrays the wetness between her legs. She is at least as nervous as Charlotte and I.
Been here a thousand times before in our minds on the sofa. So easy. So why am I choking on a dry throat? My heart is deafening me and confusing my intentions. What are my intentions now? What is it I want? Am I really to contribute to this? Am I to be just another seedy, sad man who needs to buy his favours? His desires? I think not. At least I appreciate my dilemma. She is merely two strides away and her perfume teases my common sense. My hand is squeezed and I am again aware of the reality of the situation. I am scared she will, when we are contented, close the door on our experience, as though we are just another trick, punter, call it as you will. Why do I want her to feel differently with me, differently with us? Okay, we are good looking and respectful, we care and have respect. We are still to pay to fulfil a desire. Why is my imagination two hours ahead of my reality? We haven’t spoken yet.
She moves slightly away and we are left reeling with emptiness. Emptiness is over flowing. The mind is a roomy place. You plan and want, fantasise and contemplate. Need it and repent it, deliberate the pros and cons in a second. She walks away, stops, and turns back, standing to allow us our token words, “Hi”. I laugh internally as I squeak “hi”. Fucking hell.

Fortunately for me, she is amused by my ineptitude; a smile from her rushes my emotions and I want to hug her. How pathetic I am. She stands perfectly: a gunfighter, a boxer, a lady with it all. Why this profession? Why is she here? Drugs? Of course all the tabloids tell you it is the drugs. But there are no tell tale signs – no heroin spots around the mouth, no pallid complexion, no glassy eyes. She could’ve stepped off the cover of Vogue or Cosmopolitan – so why is she here? Do I care? Not now.
I introduce myself as Sebastian. I introduce Jane as Charlotte. Charlotte and Sebastian. She speaks not. I get an answer from her eyes. Am I kidding myself that she is stirred? I cannot allow myself to care. I touch the woman’s lapel and I feel I am treading on undiscovered soil. She starts to explain her terms and her tone fails her before money is mentioned. Charlotte’s hand is taken and we are led away. Terms never offered, or accepted. Her stride compliments. She has it all; her heels click, positive and hard, perfect, then slow with direction. I follow like a lame ewe. I feel sick. My erection concerns me. I am not so easy, I need affection and want. Don’t I?
We walk in slow motion, casual glances, time has stopped. Our getting ready for tonight three hours ago feels like only a few seconds prior to now. The world has stopped spinning. They look into each other’s eyes, Charlotte and our lady, and a mutual respect is evident. I am off the edge of my map. I try to grasp the fact I can pay this woman to open her legs for me and I can fuck her as I wish. Offer her enough money and I can abuse her body by the amount in my hand; that, for me, is a confusing prospect, laden with too many consequences for my intelligence to ponder.
Where are we going? Why has this never been part of my meticulous plan? I have always jumped from street to hotel room. We aren’t in a vehicle. We are at her will. “Stop, hang on, wait a minute”: the words stab at my thoughts but sound fails my mouth and I follow along, tied to her waist by pure sex and wanting, the wanting of an experience, total admiration of the woman in front; a thousand contrasts in heels.
We seem to walk for days, weeks, in slow motion. My every nightmare looms and is vanquished by her calves as she walks in shoes hewn by Jezebel’s hands. I trail in awe, feebled for once in my life by someone who I don’t know and who I have never spoken to, yet I am to give her my seed if I wish. The reality of the situation keeps stabbing at my conscience. I am no different to any other seedy sad man, I spent my whole life rebuffing and laughing at pathetic men who need to use prostitutes for their satisfaction: I am one. I am going to be one and I feel drugged by it.
She stops dead, actually slows to a confident swagger, arm loose and swinging, holding charlotte tight with her other hand, they seem to be old friends, they turn and smile in unison. She feels good with this woman, it is I who is failing. I’ve come this far and my ardour is weak. Their hands loosen and she approaches me. Click, click and I am face to face with a hard, gorgeous woman. She places the flat of her hand on my chest and gently pushes me to a failing set of wrought iron railings - most removed for war steel, the rest bent and rusted. For a minute she examines me with emerald eyes. Her hand takes the nape of my neck and I am kissed with ease, passion and total abandonment. I feel no whore. I struggle to reciprocate as her mouth rolls and enjoys my lips, her tongue pushes and explores. So soft. So warm. Do whores do this? Full, deep, long French kissing. As she began, she draws away, a string of saliva the only clue. Neither of us wipes it away. It matters not; a bridge for our confusion, a link for sexual electricity to earth.
A week. A thousand years. A minute. Red wine high. Red bull and champagne. I am lost and lonely. Lost and full. My mind is searching for imperfections in my physique. I find many and none. Expect too much? Want too much? Most of all, she doesn’t give a fuck anyway. Charlotte is twenty-eight feet tall, I can’t fail her now, this far and I am being such a shallow wanker. I can’t do the proud moral bollocks. I reciprocate and tongue her, I exchange lips and saliva. Holding her tight and really enjoying the forgotten pleasure of the first kiss. Teeth clash and it goes unnoticed. Charlotte is lost in world of total ‘fuck it’ mindset. We are here and we are to stay.
I follow again, as my mind does AIDs and Herpes, condoms and dirt, cheap weeping sores.
I am faced with a bill-boarded, old, steel-clad door; at least 4 mm of galvanised rolled steel, coach bolted in fifty places to protect from - what? Prevent what? A cheesy seventies furnished whores flat? A beaded curtain protects nothing, but reminds punters of her day out in Cleethorpes. I may be wrong of course. She may be a Russian spy, interpreting my ardour as quality intelligence, thinking the reason is as I feared, she will be wanting payment for my fantasy, she lives to fulfil male requirement, the money earned can never repay her feelings of total repugnant bewildering scum bag availability for any overweight perverted acne pitted weird fucker who cant get a woman to even smile at him. Not I, I console myself. Not I.
The door opens and as expected she leads the way. I am greeted with a poorly maintained narrow flight of stairs. The smell of urine and brutally discarded waste…it isn’t there. I detect a very clean, high, faintly floral, non-chemically induced aroma. A surprise. A nice surprise, enough to make me feel as though I am at least as human as I expected. The peeled, stained, abused, flocked wallpaper isn’t evident. The stairway is pristinely painted in a magnolia, off-white eggshell with stencilled autumnal leaves under the dado height. Not a footprint to be seen, no chewing gum or permanent marker; Dave and Tracy haven’t fucked on this stairway, Dazza hasn’t been here with his aerosol.
I am left behind, and am bemused at the chandelier as it holds my attention. Looking upwards I see the woman very close, serious, uncomfortably serious. I am now feeling remote and there is an anger building; I analyse it and I fear I am jealous of unfounded hollow attention, or am I? Is my ego faltering? Are men really so weak? Are women so deep and genuine? I used to think women were different and a compliment from her was meaningful and worth a gloat; no longer do I hold that gratification. Women are less than a hard cock because they are simplistic and require the interest of a mobile penis. Any old compliment from a man produces a phone number from many women and within a few days their legs are open. Forgive me, my bitter jealousy and confusion casts shadows.
Standing alone on the stairs: I am forgotten. I reach the landing and am overjoyed as the two women take my hand and I am led into a bedroom that has stood the test of time. There are no glass fish; there are no lace sofa covers, no standard lamp and blue glass dolphin shaped bead curtains. Instead I see a modern, polished, stainless steel designer-featured split-level apartment - far from a town house. The upper landing accommodates five bedrooms and two bathrooms. Below, the kitchen boasts a central dining bar with a Nordic style copper-canopied open fire, warm and soothing. Huge goat and sheepskin rugs give the room an air of class and expense. I despise tack. The stuffed beasts give me mixed feelings. The situation, however, gives me a slightly narrowed view on life and all I see is a perfectly seamed, perfectly muscled calve, clad in Hong Kong’s finest silk stockings. My god! My cock again reminds me there is cave man still running deeply behind my brow.
I am alerted again to the reality of my situation by the giggles and joviality of the women in another room. I feel as though I haven’t eaten all day and drunk a few pints of premium lager too fast; a light headed spin is confusing and my brow scowls. They are leaving me behind: why the fuck can’t I enjoy, relax and make the most of an impending once in a life time experience? I put some of my failings down to the contrasts from dream to reality. Why has charlotte bonded so well with a woman she would have psychoanalysed a few months prior?
I muster myself and forget the impressions I absorb from the rooms; the smells are so clean and pure I struggle and need piles of dirty plates in the sink. I need the old gas water boiler barley clinging on to the one remaining raw plug to the oil-spotted wall. Where are the dripping, unmatched tarnished taps? Why no knickers in the sink and poorly washed whites on an odd type of drier that is hoisted into the ceiling? Getting a grip, I decide in a millisecond to make the most of my life and forget my preconceptions. Where are they? Wankers! How dare they muse themselves without me? I peer with apprehension - why? Fuck me! It’s my fantasy as well. I round a perfectly rendered stone arch. It goes on and on, the quality of stone is wasted here: listen to me - who cares about the fucking décor or quality of sandstone?
They have seated themselves with etiquette; inappropriate grace. They haven’t just sat down and got on socially. They are as one; did the whore strive for a couple to accommodate her femininity - her sexuality? Has she been waiting for this moment for years so she can warm to someone? Why am I thinking of the reasons she turned to this particular profession - abused as a child? Poor, poverty stricken parents? She seems far, far away from today’s working class. I am always struggling with the beer-swilling, over weight, fat working class. Let me step back and re-phrase the working class comment. A historian I am not. However, I am privileged to be a friend, or should I say an acquaintance, of several very poorly unfortunates who are incapacitated with bad knees, arthritis, sciatica, disc problems, depression, swollen lower discs etc. Spare me the bollocks please. Let’s put the 21st century working class fellow in the category he usually falls into: squalor: a council estate pig who doesn’t know where his five kids are at 11.30 at night let alone there their names or ages. The working class are not what they used to be. Gone are the days of leaving the front door of your red-brick terrace open at night, gossiping with Eileen next door as you sweep your doorstep to perfection. Why? Where has working class pride gone? The definition of a whole class of people has changed completely. I am indulging my anger at paying thirty three percent of my wages to support a class of state dependent underachievers. And the reason for my tangent – the realisation that my whore wasn’t working class. Please forgive my inquiring mind; a hundred thoughts a minute seem to pass through my brain, which I suppose must make me “interesting”, or irritating, depending on your composure.
I try to recollect this story at least eight months past the events. The reality of what happened still awakens me in the early hours with a massive scowl. It is far easier to dismiss the events instead of trying to explain. Enjoy her as you read about her. Enjoy my innocence and Charlotte’s brave, unwilting ardour to experience and absorb life’s most incredible experiences very gratifyingly placed in her palm.
I must interfere with the story as you read it. I am, as I write, sat on a thirty-seven feet long narrow boat trying to give you as much realism and emotion as I felt a few months ago. A few months yet a lifetime ago. All this yet I was never privy to the texts and mails they sent. The totally surreal life my lover lead leading to this night must only be relayed by herself, after all I am a man, men feel no colour or sound, we feel no scent or apprehension. We harden and give in to our feeble primitive needs. Impregnate all and sundry without the ability to see consequence. The worrying factor is the availability of the seed carrier.
I have no friends – does that surprise you?
The whore is sat with my lover. They observe my attempt at a raised brow and eye roll as cute and giggle able.

With no warning the whore stands.

“Do you have a name?” I choke the words.

She looks through a few stray strands of dark hair that have fallen across her face. Her gaze momentarily confuses me even further; I see warmth and deliberation. She contemplates the options: Amber, Porsche, Mercedes or Edith, Jane, maybe Julie. I am offered no name just a smile. Charlotte is enjoying my nervous lip twitch and is drinking red wine. I saw no bottle opened and why have I not been offered the same? Do I care? No. Yes I do. But it’s insignificant.

Our host turns her back; she turns her back and unbuttons her coat. She looks down and I imagine her curves and breasts being revealed to an eager eye. She walks forward with her coat, now loose. Very professionally she removes it with a swirl and it is neatly draped over one of the four-seat sofas. She sits, reclines and casually crosses her legs; I am in pure adrenal heaven as I drink in perfectly proportioned thighs, the silk complimenting her muscularity and shape with perfect shades and tones of texture and warmth. I drool and want to crawl over to her; I want to close my eyes and allow my lips, cheek and face to explore her legs, from the smell of new leather from her shoe to the faint scents of her getting ready a few hours ago, shampoo, deodorant, perfume and the perfect crisp smell of clean clothes. Do I detect the faint scent of her arousal? I pray I am not just another punter.
Ambitions. I always had them. I strived and wanted, my heart bled and pumped with pure jubilation. Where am I now? Am I happy? Content? I play with my own emotions. I deny myself pleasure, be it material or mental. Deny myself because I need to punish myself. Be hard. I try in vain, my eye is strong and pure. My attitude daily provides goose bumps up and down my spine. I will never fill of myself. Vain you may think. But you know me not.

Their nervous faces fill me with joy. Charlotte and Sebestian . Their fantasy lived out, although I dare not show any emotion. Wouldn’t it ruin their experience? After all how often does a guy pick up a whore with his girlfriend?
I muse myself in the kitchen as nothing has happened, as though nothing is a step left or right from the norm. I hear them speak; tension has strangled their throats. Sebastian and Charlotte.
I am feeding from my ability to provide such extreme emotions for the confused lovers. I will give them time to absorb my ambience before I seat myself across from the straining, writhing, conflicting, emotional turmoil of my guests. They do not know I am no ordinary whore. I fuck no one. No one fucks or touches me. I am photographed and I will perform for discerning cliental only.
Ruin their fear of contracting a rare disease I cannot. All part of it. I clank my glass loudly and subtly announce my entrance into the room with a large decanter of red wine. Placing it down with three clean glasses between my fingers I look up and glance them both; he is trying to view my full breasts, as they gently sway and heave with movement. Glances fix glances and a defiant stare fades within seconds. Smiling I seat myself with confident class onto my tapestry covered Victorian sofa. I must admit to being a little nervous.
I look at him and deeply stir as I imagine opening my legs to allow his lady, his girlfriend, to steer his straining cock into my wanting, throbbing sex. Do I charge them? We will see later. I sit up attentively, feeling royal in my posture. I decide to blatantly enjoy and explore myself. Wearing just a loose silk blouse I am very aware of my erect nipples. At Every opportunity they are made obvious. Nervous glances amuse and fuel me. Straightening my leg I trace and explore my silk stockings; I enjoy my body. I am enjoying being appreciated. There is no conversation. Sexual tension makes the air crisp and charged; I can smell myself, my scents of sex. My juices are flowing. I need the head of his cock. I need it to open me. I want the warmth and juice of my sex to invite his full length deeply inside my body.
Skirt aside and the top of my silk stockings are nearly on view. Expensive black silk holds and shows with perfection. My calf and shin, tone and texture. My legs are made for lips.
I am looking deeply into her emerald eyes; she is a little bewildered, however her attitude is holding her stare and we start a mutual faint smile. Eyes fixed and I start to open my legs. We maintain the stare. She knows my parted thighs are revealing perfect flesh. She knows the tops of my stockings are visible and I am showing white thigh. Look at me you bitch, look at my thighs. I want your eyes. I open and close my legs slightly, enough to bow my skirt. She is strong. Our smile is faint but we are bonding.
He is invisible to the both of us. His mouth is dry and slightly gaped. He enjoys all I have to offer. Drinking my sexuality, he uncomfortably sits with his erection blatantly on show through his pants. I warm him and include him with an eye. Lip twitches and catches itself as you do when a beer mat leaps off the base of your glass into your lap.
She has the look of uncontrollable sexual confusion, the feelings of adolescence ten fold. I am in charge of my world, do I allow her to fulfil her fantasy? Will she regret touching my flesh? Will she regret allowing him to? I have decided to allow them my sex, my morality.
Music carries down over sized ventilation ducts and gives an already charged room ghostly ambience. Women wailing and crescendos of hard rock swaying and throbbing. My legs are parted and she is going all out to soak up all I have to offer, her index finger straining a few feet away longing for my cool flesh. I close my legs and reach for the red again; the moment is shattered and I love my prowess. This is their once in a lifetime moment. It won’t be over in thirty minutes.

My god what am I doing, I turn to look and he is lagging behind. Hand in hand I am being led by a woman who I wouldn’t really have felt clean sitting next to on a bus a few months ago. A hooker – but she really does not look like a hooker. His look gives me cause to well up and wonder. He is being excluded. We are minutes into our ultimate encounter and already we are wobbly. The effect of two women could have gone two ways: excite and tempt, or alienate. The moment chose alienation just to compound our churning stomachs. He is dragged along fixated by her legs. I know he has a soft disposition toward proportioned strong women. We connect as I crane my head and smile at him; the rush hits me and I am assured we are again boarding the fucking roller coaster.
Her hand is cool and hard, larger than mine and she gives me ease and safety. Rings, too large and grotesque for myself to wear, provide entertainment for my digits. My brain traverses every emotion, every fear. hard enough as it is without being arrested for soliciting with a whore. 
With no warning I am pinned and she is facing me. A move executed with no less effect and composure than Patrick Swaze could have done. I feel no older than thirteen, helpless and scared to make any movement in case I am perceived as an amateur.

I follow as I am led. The Alpha male. Ha. A poodle, bow in hair straining on a tartan lead. They have, it would appear to the open mind, bonded. Why are they so casually ignoring my presence? Are they gloating in my confusion? Are they really so fucking callous as to pretend I am not here? I am loosing my eagerness to live the fantasy. I feel like a child who has been short changed with a small piece of cake, never allowed out of the goals, always the German in war games.
My bottom lip must be protruding and I am to stamp my feet and paddy. Trivial pettiness keeps me in good humour, I laugh at my insecurity and ponder why I feel so bitter; plain old green-eyed monster I fancy. An eye full of her perfect leg and stocking again pours petrol on the fire of fantasy rolling and straining in my screaming mind. They cast me an eye and I am again in top gear. In for a penny.

The sofa creaks under the weight of me perched on the tip of the arm. I am exposing the best pert of a full thigh. She is doing her best to look around the room with the occasional glance of my leg. They are here for one thing and as things are it would be quite easy to break into current affairs and general chitchat, dampening the electricity in the air and quelling churning stomachs.

Well I think it time the tempo picked up a little. Standing and stretching, I push and twist; nipples and breasts on perfect view through blood red blouse. Who do I choose to first? He is feeling sick with trepidation. She is a little more confident in her ability. Ability to be confident I think - if he weren’t weak she would be, one of those strange situations.

He is seated on the edge of a two seater, my fucking two seater in fact. Fuck it here we go. A couple of strides and I am next to him, eye to eye - I am smiling with a very knowing confident glint. He gives as good and we feel closer than before. Seated next to him I view my knee and am turned on at the perfect tones of texture the taut silk produces. I lift his hand and place it on my thigh; easily he enjoys my flesh. Staring deeply we blatantly allow each other pure satisfaction. He squeezes and enjoys me; his mouth is begging mine, his eyes are glazed and dilated with complete mind blowing pleasure. Do I allow him complete freedom of my body? Will he take it? Is this the moment? Will we frantically strip in total passion and fuck? Here. Now. Girlfriend unaware she has tipped wine into her lap.
The moment is his. I don’t encourage even though I can smell my juices. I look at Jane and smile; she is in heaven, looking on as her fella enjoys another woman. Her ultimate fantasy realised.
Catching me by surprise, he stands quicker than expected and I fear he is to run.
However he doesn’t. Far from it. I am swept off my feet, literally. Picked up with pure strength and confidence. Placed on the four seater as a feather landing - he even considers the crumpling of my skirt as he lays me with courtesy. I am away, we are off, ice broken and the reality hitting me in the face. My skirt is lifted slowly and with a connoisseur approach. Eyes on stalks appreciating the curves he has perused for forty years, one hand on my ankle, one on the side of my thigh; I giggle, feeling like a giant baguette as he places his mouth on my leg. The moment for him is forever. Eyes closed and I am being savoured. The sensitivity of his top lip enjoying the prickle and smell of stocking. My efforts in the gym pay a thousand fold now, as I know my firmness and curves are his dreams in reality. Eyes closed, I go with him, whatever he wants, whatever he desires; a limp body? A Madame? I will perform or submit. Hands on knees, he parts my thighs. A little too far for comfort; I am completely on show - wish I had put the sidelights on. Strong hands enjoy me for at least a thousand years, expertly enjoying and caressing. A massaging movement with gentle sexual undertones. Every now and again the cessation of movement means his mouth is to again enjoy me. I want my panties removed and need the velvet warmth of his tongue on my sex. His eyes are glazed and all pride, preconceptions, reservations of stereotype vanished.
His mouth open and intent on using me for his pleasure. Do I lay back and allow him? Do I join him in mutual pleasure? He has forgotten his partner; the strength of their relationship requires no confirmation from her. There is only so much you can do with a pair of perfect thighs. He needs more but the evening is young and I need more foreplay, especially from Charlotte. I can’t cut him short. It would be appear personal. I want nothing more than to lay back and receive all I can take.
Mustering myself I take the lead and push him back into his sofa. Straddling him, I lift my skirt and hold his face; passionate, full, hard snogging and gyrations of my hip. Rubbing my sex on his knee, I can smell myself and I know he can too. With a few sharp kisses I push him away and turn my attention to Charlotte.
Me a whore? Placing my leg on her chair arm, I lift my skirt and preen as she gulps hard. She is in a complete turmoil, sitting back, seconds earlier enjoying watching her fella with another woman. Now the attentions are with her; I am hers to enjoy as she pleases. I am confident in my body, I am probably a good few years older than Charlotte and I am longing for her to appreciate me. Tentatively her digits find my knee.
The first contact drives all the breath from my chest; a woman enjoying my body; she explores my body; immense feelings as a thousand fairy touches tantalise my flesh. I feel Confident enough to close my eyes and feed off her explorations.
Suddenly I am gripped by the waist. Strong hands take me and I am lifted enough so both feet are firmly on the floor. I part my thighs enough to allow her hands the pleasure of my full thighs. His face shuffles my hair from my neck and I feel the warmth of his breath. Goose pimples play their games the full length of my body; my neck is the key to my crutch. Arching back slightly I fully offer him my neck and shoulder. This time I have scooped my hair and bobbled it. Hands still on the back of my head, I spin and tense as his mouth rolls and seduces me with expertise and total abandonment. Charlotte has both hands up my skirt and is accentuating the sensations with perfect caressing and squeezing, very occasionally she allows herself a touch of my sex - just with the back of her hand or a finger. A little more pressure every time.

His confidence grows and I have nearly all my weight in his arms; my hips and cunt are completely on offer for her now. He gathers my skirt and we both view Charlotte running her tongue over the firm, white flesh over the stocking top - a suspender has let go and I look whoreish.
I am turned to face him and we engage in a hard passionate snog. Full kisses and tongues, mouths wide open we really allow passion to fully express. He explores my mouth and I can’t get enough of his tongue and lips. Charlotte is easing my panties down and I need her now. I try to assist by closing my legs a little and wriggling my arse. A hard slap and maybe a bite fuel my eagerness to give them my cunt. Mind spins and I am a virgin, I am given to this pair of psychological sex connoisseurs. I cannot begin to think about the original plan set in place by Miss Fox, I don’t care. I want them as much as they need me.


Am I really a man? She is putty in my hands, have I really won the battle to overcome years of cheap men and single-minded perversion? Do I swell with self-belief because the woman in my arms has given herself to me, us? Given herself after what appeared to be concern and hospitality. We have wined and wooed with this woman. My utmost fear of cold empty eyes and gratuitous sex disappeared a good while ago with the quiver of her nervous lip and an inability to catch breath, the perfect faint scents of her arousal fuelled instead of cheapened. I am still preoccupied with the aftermath.
What do I say when the explosion of fucking and saliva is over? Will we giggle in a threesome of affection and tickles, mutual compliments and sheer adoration of each others bodies and performances? I hate myself for the thoughts; what does it matter? Use her anyway and make another mental notch on my imaginary head board. Sensibility fades fast as I find my now fully erect cock poised above a pair of the most perfect cupid bow lips any man could ever imagine. As a cricket bat to the back of my head, thoughts of flaccidity scream through my stupid moral fucking mind; what if, what if. I could jump out the fucking window, landing in the middle of the fucking putrid brown waters of the ship canal, the sanctuary would provide a mental cloak. They kiss, I assume, building each other up into a frenzy of need for my cock. I ease myself slightly side ways and try to prolong the moment until I am completely rock solid.
Unfortunately, due to the fact that I have a brain, my cock is wilting and I must distract them from their quest. Surly there will be a competition to prove who can suck and deep throat. Aren’t I going to look fucking stupid when they find a very soft cock to play with? Trust me when I tell you this. You may sit, reading my pathetic recollections in the privacy of your own abode with a glass of your favourite tipple, and laugh at my indescrepancies. Being judgemental is very understandable. However, why don’t you bite the bullet and do it yourself? Quite. Just as I thought. Keep the giggles to yourself.

He seems to have the need to prolong my ultimate fantasy; will I be able to watch my man with this woman ? We were so close to the edge. If either of us had taken his cock there would have been no going back, fuck the consequences. I think deep down I am totally relying on his judgement to do what is right and when. So, I take her breasts in both hands and enjoy my first real lesbian experience. She reciprocates and hurts me by taking handfuls of my swollen heaving chest. My blouse buttons burst with the rolling, squeezing and manipulating she expertly gives my tits. I am kissed and caressed by them both; they only break to enjoy each other’s lips. This can’t continue. I need to see him fuck her. I crave the emotions that will rush my mind as I see my lover fucking another woman. I need to see his expression as he pumps and screws her around the room. Punish the slag; fuck her brains out to prove we have the impetus still. I want to lay with my thighs open waiting for my turn; I need her juices to glisten on his cock as I am taken again and again. Want him to swap cunts several times before treating us to the tastes of each other on his cock. Come on, you big fucker, take us. Pound and grind us into a world of pain and pleasure.


I can’t. I can’t fucking do it. I need more than this. I need to know this whore has feelings for me. I can’t just be another ignorant man, at least she thinks, at least she seems to be enjoying me, us. Fuck it - I want to die.
They are oblivious to my turmoil, lost in a world of giggles and tickles, sharp breaths as they explore. To be honest I feel as though I may as well watching TV. I felt isolated at the beginning and my feelings haven’t improved. So I scan the room. For what. Suppose I am still surprised at the condition of the spacious room, expensive and well appointed. Victorian bow-fronted glass cabinet. Bought no more than a year ago? And it played heavily on my mind. At least £257 to store posh wine decanters that collect dust.
The stereo, Bang and Olson, vertically mounted multi CD systems. Very unfitting for our run of the mill nightwalker. And surly she wouldn’t have brought us back to her home for us to carry out our filth.
My eyes focus on a ten by eight picture to the left hand side of the marble mantle piece. In what appears to be a carved ivory frame a picture sits with a look of ambience. Probably eighteen feet away from where I gently rock to and fro. Fuck me! Anger, surprise and amusement course through me. Bold as fucking brass. The holy grail of my confusion. The centre stage. Bold as brass, stands Miss Elizabeth Fox. Taken, I guess, ten years ago. So things aren’t, as they seem. All this a set up? No, never, never could we have been in the right place at the right time; we told no one of our plans. For obvious reasons, we really didn’t think it fit to divulge on Thursday evening we were going to find a prostitute to carry out a fantasy we had kicked around for a few years.
With confidence I look at the two women. She is so relaxed and the thoughts of previous clients spoiling her womanhood are a million miles from her thoughts, why though? Has there ever been any previous clients? Thought has Always jaded our actions; how could we relax and enjoy someone who has slept with several men that day? We couldn’t, she couldn’t. So why now? Did she? Has she? Crafty cow. Un fucking believable. Pair of bitches. Do I feel silly or flattered? I choose flattered, particularly due to the fact that Charlotte is very roughly fondling the woman’s breasts. I am fuelled and quietly angry.
A wry smile on my cheeky face, I lift the whore slightly and position her half on and half off the chais long. She has no knickers on and is glistening with saliva and excitement. Cock rock hard I ease myself inside her – I do it, I fuck her. She groans and exhales as I push deeper and further, a tilt of my hip ensures her my full length - she loves the mild discomfort. So I fuck her. I can. No hang ups anymore. She didn’t ever ever expect this. I hold her shoulders and fuck her. Charlotte is gagging; she loves and hates it - she wanted it, now she has it. The whore’s head jolts with the force of my thrusts; I am punishing the pair of them. Physically and emotionally - they wanted this, how rude of me not to oblige. Her position and my excitement combine to bring me to orgasm within a few minutes. I need not impress either. I don’t fucking care. I even feel the need to be quick; the quicker I am the less it means to me and the bigger the seedy impact on these two wankers. So I give her my all; my head swells prior to ejaculation. No consideration for disease of contraception, she takes my seed. Hard and brutally.
They seem shocked. Yeh but…Yeh but…Yeh but…am I bothered? The next few minutes last about two hours mentally. More than two hours. The moment for me has passed with an odd repressed orgasm. Such a, dare I say, anticlimax. As I shrivel and feel I should hand the tissues over, all three of us seem to feel that there has been a slightly unsatisfying ending to the evening. However, it is I who has knocked the nail of emotion through this Thursday night’s heart. Can’t wait to say “what did you do last night?” in the canteen tomorrow.

Now I feel cheap and used. I have allowed a relative stranger to ejaculate inside me. I am numb. Why is it that as soon as he climaxes the situation fizzles out? Surly she is still on fire. My fire is waning the more I think about what I have done. I don’t even know exactly why I took on the request from Ruth. I love Ruth; she is one of the most caring, intelligent women I have ever met. A perfect blend of body and brain. Body and brain? There will be a public house in London I bet called Body and Brain.
I hold my hand out to Charlotte. I need comfort and I hope she wants to comfort me and allow reciprocal hugs. She takes my hand quickly and moves to my side. I could faint as she holds my face and slowly guides her tongue inside my mouth. So sensual. Breath leaves me and she uses my surprise to her advantage, cupping my breasts and opening my thighs with her knee. The situation hasn’t fizzled at all. Far from it. I allow her the freedom to explore me. His brutal, perfect fucking has opened the door for Charlotte and I to experience the slower, finer, more casual, relaxed sex. Female sex. I am on offer to her. Free of charge. I lean back and give her my body. I want. I crave her lips on my neck. Firstly her breath, the faintest of tickles from her lips. The occasional mouthing and show of teeth. From shoulder heaven. And again.
And again.
And again.
Heady with sex.
The gentleness of her mouth, contrasting with the hard fucking I received.
I want them both together.

Now.................... do ?

Friday, 6 November 2009

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Monday, 2 November 2009


It looked to all intents and purposes the words daubed on the wall had been formed with a finger or some pliable object, the horror of the situation worsened when it became quite evident the chosen media was blood and excrement. Fuck me. I looked round to find solace in the fears and repulsion on the faces of the growing crowd. I needed strength from the weakness of the rest. I only found numbness and confused frowns
“What’s happened?”
A small squeaky voice breaks the muffled rumbles of whispering and confused murmurs.

I turn and look a little down. Fuck me; I’m looking into the pair of thickest lensed glasses I have ever seen. All I could see of the poor fella’s eyes were huge pupils, the size of a teacup saucer. Mustn’t look, isn’t polite, mind you there’s no fucking chance of him feeling embarrassed he wont be able to focus on me at all. Wonder if they are for general wear? Long range or reading? Can he see craters on the moon?
“What’s happened?”
“Darling you really don’t want to look, the police will be here within a minute or two and the whole subway will be closed off and treated as a crime scene with all that tape and stuff”
“Crime scene? I thought the crowds were just appreciating a good street artist?”
“Darling you really must dash along, an awful atrocity has been committed here and the images will stay with you for life, really wish I had as they say, just walked on bye”
He squeezed past me with what I considered to be fucking rudeness. If he hadn’t been so small and hamster like I would of removed his jam jars and dressed him down. Watching his face and body language with a kind of expectation for him to pass out or vomit, I was totally bemused and amazed when he turned with the same placid expression and squeezed himself past me again.
“He was here yesterday, very good isn’t he?”
With that he meandered over to a very gritty typical urban bench. This very action verified he clearly isn’t using his glasses to their full potential, maybe he can see an aphid’s arse, or the pixels on a photograph look like postage stamps. Anyway he is sitting on what looks like a varied array of fast food remains, digested or not I can’t be sure. How on earth does such a small quirky cute little man get by in this greedy cold world? Does he go home and read the National Geographic? Readers Digest? Fur and Feather? Horse and Hound? Cage and Aviary Bird? No no, me thinks he is a connoisseur of maybe amie, the oriental cartoon type of sudo sexual schoolgirl action odd stuff. I really shouldn’t comment on Amie I no fuck all on the subject.

With and astounding loud spontaneous Ohhh and then Arrr from the hundred or so crowd that formed in the sub-way, I turned my imagination away from the odd little hamster sat on the sweet corn and chewing gum to the horror of the mess against the dimly illuminated grey piss stained wall.

Fucking hell, fucking hell fuck me, fuck me. Oh fuck me.
Half an hour earlier I decided after a few minutes of waiting for a window of opportunity to appear so I could cross the fucking road, that it would be best to use the putrid subway. I detest using such tunnels of mans filth, why is it that men seem to see these subterranean passages as a canvas for some unreadable crap Muriel of somewhere to piss. However as I neared the bottom of the steps a large round lady in her late forties came wobbling toward me pale as fuck and clutching her chest with her left hand whilst gripping the handles of her Tesco bag for life in her right.
“Oh love, Oh lovey, don’t look in there, don’t look in there, oh dear, oh my”
“Is she a nutter or something? Why me? I always attract the fruit cakes”
Then as I rounded the odd 70’s small tiled mozaked aerosol ruined wall of the underpass my heart stopped. My breath failed me. My body filled with adrenaline and my throat with bile. Sweat beaded on my brow and every feeling of fear and paranoia that I had ever experienced returned together, in a mix of grotesque paralysing visual trauma.

Lying at the foot of the cold grey wall on the left side of the subway was the remains of a heavily mutilated vagrant. A busker. His guitar lay broken and spent near an old cloth cap that I assumed at the time contained a few copper coins.

His head appeared to be shaped in a convex oval. Maybe he had been stamped on repeatedly, maybe severely batted with a bat. A mound of drying blood bubbles looking alien like moving from his mouth and falling out of formation as the friction of his rough cotton padded lumberjack shirt spoilt their easy slide. His mouth, I think, well it looked as if his mouth was still working, his jaw seemed to mouth a monosyllable every few minutes.

I was transfixed. As my eyes focused in the shadows the true horrors became clear, his entrails had been removed and wrapped around his neck, the stomach had been slit or badly abused as the acidic contents were oozing towards the growing crowd. The already piss stained air took on a new horror as the sweet vomity butchers shop smell started to find nostrils. Close your eyes and remove the inside of a fresh turkey or chicken. Times that by a thousand and eh voila.

His left hand fingers were all pointing in the wrong direction and it actually looked as though his arm had been dislocated at the elbow with incredible force.

There was a specific stench of human shit. An overpowering smell of shit, it moved in and out, swapping precedence with the entrails and blood. And piss. Maybe the piss was already there.

On the wall behind the words


And, I was reliably informed by a guy in an orange high Vis waistcoat the letters had been written in shit and blood.
Minutes passed and no one moved closer or left the scene, it was pointless stepping forward to offer medical aid as the guy was clearly mortally wounded. No police though, I would of thought by now the area would be a swarm of self important uniform, not looking forward to the amount of paper work that would be involved for the next few months as the crime was investigated. My only interlude being the guy with telescopes on his eyes.

Then. Well fuck me, straight to the point. The guy jumped up, brushed off a huge amount of entrails and offal shouted Viva the people and legged it up the stairs opposite, guitar and effects still in place.

Shocked. Fucking shocked. Really fucking shocked. Now annoyed and unamused. Fucking twat.

It transpired this event had been going on over the past week or so in various subways, it was a protest against the way the authorities namely the local councils were prepared to treat the local people and reduce their amenities.

A protest. A protest carried out by two people, the guy who lies in the grotesque murder scene, and the guy who prepares the scene then cleans it up later.

A protest about the 2012 London Olympic villiage and the reduction in public services so monies could be saved in case government and lottery funds don’t quite cover the costs incurred. What a load of bollocks. Oh well, I wont forget that in a hurry and I feel sorry for the folk who moved away and are still under the impression the guy was dead.

I turn to look at telescope man, maybe he is a super hero, hey! He might be able to fire a laser from his lenses, scortch the earth, shoot down a baddie. Maybe not.

Huh, he is gone. However seated on a news paper looking rather fucking gorgous is Lucy. Frantically scribbling the descriptions of the scene onto her pukka pad. Oh how cute, a spiral bound lined pad with teddy bears and purple unicorns on the covers. I see her camera’s shutter cover is open so I assume she has been snapping away to enable her to write something in detail later. I think she is in London under some form of comissioned venture to study the impacts of the new olympic builds on the indirect areas and the people’s within. Cant remember who she is comissioned by, sure it was a broard sheet, maybe a Sunday version, one with several magazines inside that rarly contain anything usefull. In a few months I might read about some odd guy in a subway, faining murder to achieve visual impact. He fucking did that.
Do I go over and say hi? Do I follow her and send her impromptu txt,s. she is looking very well. Confident and attractive. Breasts are gorgously begging my elbow in a crowd. I think I choose to enjoy her body over the next few hours. If we can find a busy tube train.

Oh fuck me.