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The man came over. He was short and bald, with beads of sweat forming on his pate. It was a stifling, muggy evening in the pub garden. He had been eyeing us up for a few minutes and I had smiled. Now that he had come over I wasn’t sure that had been a good idea.
“I was going to ask, you know, ask if you two ladies are like, you know, like…”
“You mean, are we lesbians?” said Wendy, reading his rather transparent thoughts.
“Yes” he said, forcing a smile.
“No we’re not. We’re just good friends.”
“Oh,” he said, not hiding his disappointment. “But would you be up for a threesome?”
We said nothing, inviting him to carry on.
“I’ve got a hotel room, a nice one.”
“And where might that be?” I asked coquettishly, imagining a room with a jacuzzi in the posh place by the cathedral.
“It’s that place by the station.”
I took the fat cigar out of his hand, put it in my mouth, and took a long drag.
“The budget place?” I exhaled, directing the smoke only slightly to the side of his face. “You do know how to show a girl a good time, don’t you love? Or two girls even…”
Wendy interjected, “You can have us both for an hour for three hundred pounds.”
He took the fat cigar from me, sucking on it, thought for what seemed an age and said, “Sorry ladies, I can’t afford that.”
“That’s the price, darling,” replied Wendy, “and we are worth every penny.”
“Too much for me, sorry ladies.”
He stubbed out the cigar, finished his pint and left.
“Well, thanks for trying to sell me into prostitution, Wend!”
“I meant it, Julia. It’s easy money, take his cash, give him a quick blow job and leg it.”
“But that place by the station? I’d be worried about the fleas!”
We both laughed.
On the bus home, I started thinking about the man. Maybe he was sad, maybe he was creepy, and he was no oil painting and maybe sex with him would have been, well, disgusting. But I couldn’t get out of my mind the feeling that I needed it. I craved it. And we had had a little moment of intimacy, hadn’t we, the shared fluids of the cigar.
The late shop was still open when I got off the bus. I went in and bought a packet of five panatellas. I smoked one with my bedtime whisky. I took one of the others and pleasured myself with it as I fantasised about being paid for sex with a grubby man in a grubby hotel bed.
The next day, it was hot again. It was Sunday. I had to pop out early for milk and cigarettes, but after that, the day was mine, home alone like all my best Sundays. I poured myself a white wine and sat on the balcony with a couple of magazines to enjoy the sun.
I took out a cigarette but then had second thoughts. It had to be a cigar. From now on, I was going to be a cigar-smoking girl—cigars and whisky, my breath a mix of the two each time I leaned in to kiss a guy, knowing that most of them would not resist me. Or I them. Cigars and sex were linked for me forever. Before I lit the cigar, I pulled my skirt up and ran it over my clit. Then I lit it, settled back and began to read. I turned the page from autumn fashion to “The Best Sex I Ever Had Was With A Stranger In a Pub Toilet” and knew I would not be able to settle. I put the cigar out, placing it carefully on the edge of the ashtray for later. I went inside, I was gagging for it, not for the guy from the pub necessarily but, well, he would do.
I pulled on a blindfold, put in my headphones, selected soothing music on my phone and lay down on the kitchen table to listen…
***
I am meditating, I am floating with the music, the rush of water, the aroma of orchids in a forest clearing, the statue of an ancient God I caress, drawing healing from ancient stone, caressing, caressing as I will soon caress my body. Suddenlythere are hands caressing me, not with the delicacy of a woman worshipping her God of stone, but roughly, with the energy of a baker kneading dough. There are four hands, and the aroma of orchids yields to cigars. He is here. He is here for my pleasure. They are here. I do not know who the second man is, but he is welcome too.
They quickly get to work on my breasts. Hands are all over me, fingers are everywhere. I am being touched and slapped and rubbed like a piece of meat, and this feels good.
Guys let’s feast on sex together here in the kitchen. When you’ve finished with me, maybe I can cook us lunch? I’ve got a bumper pack of sausages.
Surely they like sausages? And the kneading of my boobs continues, getting more intense. I let out a sigh. Then my stiff nipples are taken into their mouths, a delicate playful bite, then they suck and pull, and I gasp again.
What are you doing next guys? Do whatever you want, I won’t resist I promise, I am all yours.
I’m jolted and then pulled firmly along the table, I think by sweaty cigar man, until my legs dangle over the edge, which bites into my lower back, just where I have my slag tag tattoo. I wince, but not for long, as I feel my skirt being tugged off. It falls to the floor as he puts his hands on my thighs, grabs my panties and yanks them down. They are dangling from my left ankle, then a finger jabs abruptly right inside me, then another and a thumb on my clit. God, this is so good. Could I really have had this last night and been paid for it? Who cares if the hotel was a fleapit. With cigarette ends and come-filled condoms under the bed? Who cares? I didn’t, and, well, I have been fucked in that hotel before, not that I can tell people.
My lover and I went there after an evening of too much wine and vodka at Wetherspoons. I stank of cigarettes. We laughed with the guy in reception as he asked where our cases were, although he knew the answer as we paid in cash and went up the rickety staircase to Room 101. Then my man shoved me roughly onto the chest of drawers, pulled my legs apart and fucked me, no foreplay, just pushing hard into my dry cunt. He rammed me ferociously, wincing at the abrasive discomfort. I let out a cry, begging him to stop while screaming to be fucked harder, and with his final brutal thrust he pushed me back against the mirror that fell to the floor and smashed. We crept out at one in the morning, and I haven’t been back since. I doubt they would recognise me, though. The guy on reception was high, and the place reeked of weed.
And the thought of this filthy sex, the degradation of being fucked in a dirty room with carpets heavy with the dust of years, a used bed—this is a place you can book by the hour after all—had me wanting. And there’s cigar man, all fingers—he has four in me now—and thumbs, well thumb, jabbing at my clit, and I am wet, I am dilated, I am so fucking wet! Come on cigar man, let’s see what you’ve got.
Just give it to me.
At that moment, the other man, the one who has been playing with my tits, pulls off the blindfold.
The first thing I see is a cigar man in all his unexpected magnificence. He is playing with himself, running his hand back and forth along the shaft, until the shiny purple jewel breaks free of his foreskin, a promise of delight glistening with precome.
The other man climbs onto the table. His cock is rather enticing too, and without a word, he is down on me, pushing the fat, bulging shaft into my mouth. I breathe in, suck deeply and take as much of his length into my throat as I can. I think I am going to choke, but breathe again. He withdraws slightly and I close my lips around him, suck greedily, take his shaft in my hands and work it in and out in and out, till he takes over and starts to facefuck me.
At this point cigar man pushes into my cunt. I am full of cock, full of the best cock I have ever seen. He works quickly, hehas an energy and vibrancy I could not have imagined when we spoke on the pub garden. As he pumps away, his finger finds my clit again. He rubs savagely and brings me quickly to orgasm, then withdraws. His come runs hot down my thigh. I imagine it leaving a glistening sticky trail. Territory marked.
The other man has pulled away as I am being fucked. But now he is back, and I have to, want to, suck and lick and whip his bellend with my tongue. I am here to work, I am here to pleasure them. I am here to be used, and I want to be used.
Guys, fill me with your come, fill my cunt, fill my mouth, fill my bum. Make me drip from every hole, make me suck, make me swallow, make me your plaything.
He is bigger than ever—I can’t take his full length in my mouth. As he pushes slowly, I start to gag. But he is insistent. He gets bigger. I am choking, I can’t breathe. He comes in my mouth. I swallow greedily, but there is so much some of it dribbles out and down my chin. I think of the first time I blew a guy on my knees in mud on the edge of my old school playing field where we both used to go.
It was the winter after we had graduated. We found a gap in the fence and went in, I unbuttoned my coat to show him the school blazer I had on underneath, the blouse and the tie, tied with a huge knot so that it barely reached down to my boobs. Who would believe I was still a virgin when I left school? He wouldn’t. I knew he wanted to fuck me, I knew that he thought I was a slag, but that was part of the attraction for him—used goods, well used goods. But that was just an image I wanted to project. I wanted to be like Linda Wood in the year above who really did do the rounds of the Sixth Form boys. She did it with my brother in our house one time. I secretly worshipped her.
Linda could take this man’s huge cock. I can too. I take him again, I suck greedily, and he comes again, again I swallow, Again I smile at him as come runs down my chin.
And then it’s his turn to take me. Where do these guys get the stamina? I mean, that school friend couldn’t fuck me after I had blown him. I knelt in the cold mud, lifted my pleated skirt and knickers and waited for him to enter me. But he couldn’t do it. But these guys are insatiable.
I get down off the table, bend over and part my legs. This is how I like to be taken. This is how my school friend took me the first time I was fucked, not in winter mud but in a summer wheatfield. Kneeling on corn, I was taken from behind, and the smell of earth still turns me on a bit, I guess, like the guy who told me Michael Kors Original made him hard every time he smelt it because it reminded him of the work colleague he once had an affair with. What fragrance turns these guys on I wondered? Elie Saab is my current favourite. I imagine I am wearing it, this guy is big and hard but when he smells me he will be yet bigger and harder.
He moans as he comes. His come too spills down my thigh. I am pulled back onto the kitchen table, and cigar man pushes his cock into my mouth. God, I need a smoke, I need to clean my mouth of the taste of come. This is all becoming a bit much, I imagine his fat dick as a cigar on which I draw deeply to breathe out big clouds of fragrant smoke.
He comes again.
This time I don’t swallow. I take his big cock, pull back the foreskin repeatedly, as if milking him, let the warm sticky come flow out into my tits. I use the cock like a paintbrush, light strokes from a palette of sticky delight. He likes this. He gasps with pleasure. I know he will come again.
I think of the hot guy I once saw at a painting class. I imagined doing this with him. I used the brush to pleasure myself through my jeans as I fantasised about him, peering at him over my canvas, how we would make art together, broad brush strokes of come across the canvas, like clouds above the field I was painting. A field of wheat with a tree in the corner from which I would pull a thin branch to flog him, make him thrust and grunt and sweat, drive him ever closer to climax until the sky turned grey and he broke like the weather, in a cloudburst of come. I would lie back and open my mouth, a parched traveller after the dry months.
I move cigar man’s cock over my tits which shine under the kitchen lights. I am painting a new picture on a new canvas, to be hung in the gallery of my debauched soul, next to the luggage tag nestling in roses, with the word Slag in italic script. All my lovers should know who I am. A slag, a proud unrepentant slag who was made to receive big fat cocks in every hole.
I am tired, I am struggling, I am fucked to exhaustion, but now I have a second wind.
Just fuck me again. Frig me, shove those cocks down my mouth, give this needy slag what she wants, fuck her and fuck her and fuck her again! Give me the fucking that is the sum total of all the fucks I have ever had, the school playing field, the corn field, the painting class. Make me your work of filthy art. Make me your canvas. Make me an object. Make me a piece of meat you slap down on my kitchen table. Make me happy.
But even these guys can’t go on forever. I don’t actually notice when the fucking stops, I am just away in my lovely little world. And when I realise they are putting their clothes back on, kissing me hard on the lips and preparing to leave, I have already drawn up my knees and arched my back, rubbing my bud as I fantasise about them.
They close the door gently behind them. I hear laughter outside.
“She and her mate wanted three hundred quid. Can you believe that? I pay a hundred at my local parlour with my favourite, Milfy Maggie. She is a proper horny minx. Oral without and full service.”
Oral without and full service, oral without and full service, oral without and full service…
***
I woke with a start. It was still light, still hot outside, the sun beating off the brick of the flats opposite. I didn’t know how long I had been asleep for, but I felt refreshed and relaxed. The men had gone. I needed a bath, I thought. I stank of sex and come, and maybe I would go out for a drink later. Then I noticed I still had my clothes on, my blouse still buttoned up, my denim skirt. I was clean. I was puzzled. Had I dreamt it all? Was it a fantasy threesome? Surely not, I was feeling the post-coital glow, I was buzzing, I slid off the table, slipped my shoes on and walked out into the balcony.
I looked at the ashtray. There was the panatella I had smoked and left unfinished. But alongside it, there was another, fatter cigar, or rather half a fatter cigar. The smell was familiar It was the smell of the breath of the man in the pub garden who didn’t think Wend and me were worth three hundred pounds. After today he could have me for free any time he wanted. The fat cigar had been put out carefully just as if he was leaving it for me to finish, as if his filling of my mouth would have no end.
I sat down on my balcony chair, took half of the fat cigar, pushed it inside me, twisted it around to absorb my juices. I smoked it, slowly and voluptuously, playing with myself, replaying the day in my head. I had lost count of the orgasms I had had. But there was plenty of time for a few more.
The End
“I was going to ask, you know, ask if you two ladies are like, you know, like…”
“You mean, are we lesbians?” said Wendy, reading his rather transparent thoughts.
“Yes” he said, forcing a smile.
“No we’re not. We’re just good friends.”
“Oh,” he said, not hiding his disappointment. “But would you be up for a threesome?”
We said nothing, inviting him to carry on.
“I’ve got a hotel room, a nice one.”
“And where might that be?” I asked coquettishly, imagining a room with a jacuzzi in the posh place by the cathedral.
“It’s that place by the station.”
I took the fat cigar out of his hand, put it in my mouth, and took a long drag.
“The budget place?” I exhaled, directing the smoke only slightly to the side of his face. “You do know how to show a girl a good time, don’t you love? Or two girls even…”
Wendy interjected, “You can have us both for an hour for three hundred pounds.”
He took the fat cigar from me, sucking on it, thought for what seemed an age and said, “Sorry ladies, I can’t afford that.”
“That’s the price, darling,” replied Wendy, “and we are worth every penny.”
“Too much for me, sorry ladies.”
He stubbed out the cigar, finished his pint and left.
“Well, thanks for trying to sell me into prostitution, Wend!”
“I meant it, Julia. It’s easy money, take his cash, give him a quick blow job and leg it.”
“But that place by the station? I’d be worried about the fleas!”
We both laughed.
On the bus home, I started thinking about the man. Maybe he was sad, maybe he was creepy, and he was no oil painting and maybe sex with him would have been, well, disgusting. But I couldn’t get out of my mind the feeling that I needed it. I craved it. And we had had a little moment of intimacy, hadn’t we, the shared fluids of the cigar.
The late shop was still open when I got off the bus. I went in and bought a packet of five panatellas. I smoked one with my bedtime whisky. I took one of the others and pleasured myself with it as I fantasised about being paid for sex with a grubby man in a grubby hotel bed.
The next day, it was hot again. It was Sunday. I had to pop out early for milk and cigarettes, but after that, the day was mine, home alone like all my best Sundays. I poured myself a white wine and sat on the balcony with a couple of magazines to enjoy the sun.
I took out a cigarette but then had second thoughts. It had to be a cigar. From now on, I was going to be a cigar-smoking girl—cigars and whisky, my breath a mix of the two each time I leaned in to kiss a guy, knowing that most of them would not resist me. Or I them. Cigars and sex were linked for me forever. Before I lit the cigar, I pulled my skirt up and ran it over my clit. Then I lit it, settled back and began to read. I turned the page from autumn fashion to “The Best Sex I Ever Had Was With A Stranger In a Pub Toilet” and knew I would not be able to settle. I put the cigar out, placing it carefully on the edge of the ashtray for later. I went inside, I was gagging for it, not for the guy from the pub necessarily but, well, he would do.
I pulled on a blindfold, put in my headphones, selected soothing music on my phone and lay down on the kitchen table to listen…
***
I am meditating, I am floating with the music, the rush of water, the aroma of orchids in a forest clearing, the statue of an ancient God I caress, drawing healing from ancient stone, caressing, caressing as I will soon caress my body. Suddenlythere are hands caressing me, not with the delicacy of a woman worshipping her God of stone, but roughly, with the energy of a baker kneading dough. There are four hands, and the aroma of orchids yields to cigars. He is here. He is here for my pleasure. They are here. I do not know who the second man is, but he is welcome too.
They quickly get to work on my breasts. Hands are all over me, fingers are everywhere. I am being touched and slapped and rubbed like a piece of meat, and this feels good.
Guys let’s feast on sex together here in the kitchen. When you’ve finished with me, maybe I can cook us lunch? I’ve got a bumper pack of sausages.
Surely they like sausages? And the kneading of my boobs continues, getting more intense. I let out a sigh. Then my stiff nipples are taken into their mouths, a delicate playful bite, then they suck and pull, and I gasp again.
What are you doing next guys? Do whatever you want, I won’t resist I promise, I am all yours.
I’m jolted and then pulled firmly along the table, I think by sweaty cigar man, until my legs dangle over the edge, which bites into my lower back, just where I have my slag tag tattoo. I wince, but not for long, as I feel my skirt being tugged off. It falls to the floor as he puts his hands on my thighs, grabs my panties and yanks them down. They are dangling from my left ankle, then a finger jabs abruptly right inside me, then another and a thumb on my clit. God, this is so good. Could I really have had this last night and been paid for it? Who cares if the hotel was a fleapit. With cigarette ends and come-filled condoms under the bed? Who cares? I didn’t, and, well, I have been fucked in that hotel before, not that I can tell people.
My lover and I went there after an evening of too much wine and vodka at Wetherspoons. I stank of cigarettes. We laughed with the guy in reception as he asked where our cases were, although he knew the answer as we paid in cash and went up the rickety staircase to Room 101. Then my man shoved me roughly onto the chest of drawers, pulled my legs apart and fucked me, no foreplay, just pushing hard into my dry cunt. He rammed me ferociously, wincing at the abrasive discomfort. I let out a cry, begging him to stop while screaming to be fucked harder, and with his final brutal thrust he pushed me back against the mirror that fell to the floor and smashed. We crept out at one in the morning, and I haven’t been back since. I doubt they would recognise me, though. The guy on reception was high, and the place reeked of weed.
And the thought of this filthy sex, the degradation of being fucked in a dirty room with carpets heavy with the dust of years, a used bed—this is a place you can book by the hour after all—had me wanting. And there’s cigar man, all fingers—he has four in me now—and thumbs, well thumb, jabbing at my clit, and I am wet, I am dilated, I am so fucking wet! Come on cigar man, let’s see what you’ve got.
Just give it to me.
At that moment, the other man, the one who has been playing with my tits, pulls off the blindfold.
The first thing I see is a cigar man in all his unexpected magnificence. He is playing with himself, running his hand back and forth along the shaft, until the shiny purple jewel breaks free of his foreskin, a promise of delight glistening with precome.
The other man climbs onto the table. His cock is rather enticing too, and without a word, he is down on me, pushing the fat, bulging shaft into my mouth. I breathe in, suck deeply and take as much of his length into my throat as I can. I think I am going to choke, but breathe again. He withdraws slightly and I close my lips around him, suck greedily, take his shaft in my hands and work it in and out in and out, till he takes over and starts to facefuck me.
At this point cigar man pushes into my cunt. I am full of cock, full of the best cock I have ever seen. He works quickly, hehas an energy and vibrancy I could not have imagined when we spoke on the pub garden. As he pumps away, his finger finds my clit again. He rubs savagely and brings me quickly to orgasm, then withdraws. His come runs hot down my thigh. I imagine it leaving a glistening sticky trail. Territory marked.
The other man has pulled away as I am being fucked. But now he is back, and I have to, want to, suck and lick and whip his bellend with my tongue. I am here to work, I am here to pleasure them. I am here to be used, and I want to be used.
Guys, fill me with your come, fill my cunt, fill my mouth, fill my bum. Make me drip from every hole, make me suck, make me swallow, make me your plaything.
He is bigger than ever—I can’t take his full length in my mouth. As he pushes slowly, I start to gag. But he is insistent. He gets bigger. I am choking, I can’t breathe. He comes in my mouth. I swallow greedily, but there is so much some of it dribbles out and down my chin. I think of the first time I blew a guy on my knees in mud on the edge of my old school playing field where we both used to go.
It was the winter after we had graduated. We found a gap in the fence and went in, I unbuttoned my coat to show him the school blazer I had on underneath, the blouse and the tie, tied with a huge knot so that it barely reached down to my boobs. Who would believe I was still a virgin when I left school? He wouldn’t. I knew he wanted to fuck me, I knew that he thought I was a slag, but that was part of the attraction for him—used goods, well used goods. But that was just an image I wanted to project. I wanted to be like Linda Wood in the year above who really did do the rounds of the Sixth Form boys. She did it with my brother in our house one time. I secretly worshipped her.
Linda could take this man’s huge cock. I can too. I take him again, I suck greedily, and he comes again, again I swallow, Again I smile at him as come runs down my chin.
And then it’s his turn to take me. Where do these guys get the stamina? I mean, that school friend couldn’t fuck me after I had blown him. I knelt in the cold mud, lifted my pleated skirt and knickers and waited for him to enter me. But he couldn’t do it. But these guys are insatiable.
I get down off the table, bend over and part my legs. This is how I like to be taken. This is how my school friend took me the first time I was fucked, not in winter mud but in a summer wheatfield. Kneeling on corn, I was taken from behind, and the smell of earth still turns me on a bit, I guess, like the guy who told me Michael Kors Original made him hard every time he smelt it because it reminded him of the work colleague he once had an affair with. What fragrance turns these guys on I wondered? Elie Saab is my current favourite. I imagine I am wearing it, this guy is big and hard but when he smells me he will be yet bigger and harder.
He moans as he comes. His come too spills down my thigh. I am pulled back onto the kitchen table, and cigar man pushes his cock into my mouth. God, I need a smoke, I need to clean my mouth of the taste of come. This is all becoming a bit much, I imagine his fat dick as a cigar on which I draw deeply to breathe out big clouds of fragrant smoke.
He comes again.
This time I don’t swallow. I take his big cock, pull back the foreskin repeatedly, as if milking him, let the warm sticky come flow out into my tits. I use the cock like a paintbrush, light strokes from a palette of sticky delight. He likes this. He gasps with pleasure. I know he will come again.
I think of the hot guy I once saw at a painting class. I imagined doing this with him. I used the brush to pleasure myself through my jeans as I fantasised about him, peering at him over my canvas, how we would make art together, broad brush strokes of come across the canvas, like clouds above the field I was painting. A field of wheat with a tree in the corner from which I would pull a thin branch to flog him, make him thrust and grunt and sweat, drive him ever closer to climax until the sky turned grey and he broke like the weather, in a cloudburst of come. I would lie back and open my mouth, a parched traveller after the dry months.
I move cigar man’s cock over my tits which shine under the kitchen lights. I am painting a new picture on a new canvas, to be hung in the gallery of my debauched soul, next to the luggage tag nestling in roses, with the word Slag in italic script. All my lovers should know who I am. A slag, a proud unrepentant slag who was made to receive big fat cocks in every hole.
I am tired, I am struggling, I am fucked to exhaustion, but now I have a second wind.
Just fuck me again. Frig me, shove those cocks down my mouth, give this needy slag what she wants, fuck her and fuck her and fuck her again! Give me the fucking that is the sum total of all the fucks I have ever had, the school playing field, the corn field, the painting class. Make me your work of filthy art. Make me your canvas. Make me an object. Make me a piece of meat you slap down on my kitchen table. Make me happy.
But even these guys can’t go on forever. I don’t actually notice when the fucking stops, I am just away in my lovely little world. And when I realise they are putting their clothes back on, kissing me hard on the lips and preparing to leave, I have already drawn up my knees and arched my back, rubbing my bud as I fantasise about them.
They close the door gently behind them. I hear laughter outside.
“She and her mate wanted three hundred quid. Can you believe that? I pay a hundred at my local parlour with my favourite, Milfy Maggie. She is a proper horny minx. Oral without and full service.”
Oral without and full service, oral without and full service, oral without and full service…
***
I woke with a start. It was still light, still hot outside, the sun beating off the brick of the flats opposite. I didn’t know how long I had been asleep for, but I felt refreshed and relaxed. The men had gone. I needed a bath, I thought. I stank of sex and come, and maybe I would go out for a drink later. Then I noticed I still had my clothes on, my blouse still buttoned up, my denim skirt. I was clean. I was puzzled. Had I dreamt it all? Was it a fantasy threesome? Surely not, I was feeling the post-coital glow, I was buzzing, I slid off the table, slipped my shoes on and walked out into the balcony.
I looked at the ashtray. There was the panatella I had smoked and left unfinished. But alongside it, there was another, fatter cigar, or rather half a fatter cigar. The smell was familiar It was the smell of the breath of the man in the pub garden who didn’t think Wend and me were worth three hundred pounds. After today he could have me for free any time he wanted. The fat cigar had been put out carefully just as if he was leaving it for me to finish, as if his filling of my mouth would have no end.
I sat down on my balcony chair, took half of the fat cigar, pushed it inside me, twisted it around to absorb my juices. I smoked it, slowly and voluptuously, playing with myself, replaying the day in my head. I had lost count of the orgasms I had had. But there was plenty of time for a few more.
The End
