“It may be a perverted taste, but I love prostitution, and for itself, too, quite apart from its carnal aspects … The idea of prostitution is a meeting place of so many elements – lust, bitterness, complete absence of human contact, muscular frenzy, the clink of gold – that to peer into it makes one reel. One learns so many things in a brothel, and feels such sadness, and dreams so longingly of love!” – Gustav Flaubert
I sat on the terraza at the bottom of the cathedral steps and sipped at my second jarra of beer. I’d had it ten minutes and already it was lukewarm. My back was to the wall so that I could watch everyone who passed. Old habits die hard.
There weren’t many locals around only fat, sweating tourists bemoaning the intolerable heat. This was nothing. They should feel what it’s like in Seville. That’s the kind of heat that’ll fuck you good, and won’t buy you dinner afterwards.
I almost called to them to quit their bellyaching. After all, it was two o’clock. Anyone with a grain of sense would be taking a siesta.
I lit a cigarette and glanced down at my day-old English newspaper.
The paper was a fucking rag. No news, only shitty celebrity scoops and hysterical scare stories and a column or too dedicated to foreign affairs in the middle, before the sports. The sickly, clammy fear of terrorism pervaded it. Even seeping into the Blunder Leads to Own Goal stories and the Skinny Runt Popstar Snorting Cocaine scoops. They were right to be afraid too. The Game’s all about fanaticism nowadays.
It was not always thus.
Maybe I was starting to get nostalgic, but I didn’t think we were ever fanatical. Those of us on the front line, the Reds and us decadent Westerners, we didn’t believe the politicians’ bullshit any more than they did. We were just doing a job of work. That’s why they called it the Cold War – we were cold fucking bastards to a man. We’d shoot you, but it was nothing personal. We weren’t sending you to heaven or hell. Or anywhere. It was business.
It was the Game.
The Soviets thought they were playing chess, but we knew it was Snakes and Ladders. That’s how we won. But now … who knows what the fuck they’re playing. I was well out of it.
Girona is a pleasant enough town to get lost in. With its winding mediaeval streets, and sprightly bright-coloured houses lining the river, it’s almost – but not quite – diverting enough to let you forget what you’re running from.
I had found myself a nice spot to sit, drink my beer and try to ride out the midday heat. I had a view of the cathedral, and a good bit of shade. I didn’t know how long I’d stay in town. I’d booked a hotel down near the Plaza de l’Independencia for a week, but probably wouldn’t stay so long. There was an airport close by. I could go anywhere at short notice. I’d got some money and could always get more.
I was free as a bird.
Or, at least, free as a sparrow or a wren, always darting glances hither and thither on the lookout for cats and hawks.
A raggedy woman pushing a ramshackle pram passed in front of the terraza, which was set back into an alcove away from the pavement. She shot me a sidelong glance and hurried on by. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but she’d passed me a quarter an hour before going in the other direction. Being in the Service makes you paranoid, because being paranoid keeps you alive.
Of course, she was watching me.
Impoverished single mothers are prime material for recruitment: They always need money and the babe in arms gives them a sort of invisibility. Sexually unavailable, destitute and desperate, no one will look at them in case they ask for money or, worse, for pity and humanity. All she’d have to do to earn her silver dollars was to keep an eye on me, and let her handler know when I moved.
Ideally there’d be two or three watchers, each taking home a few euros for their trouble. I angled my head to see beyond the wall on my left. Sure enough there was a man sat on the steps disinterestedly turning the pages of a novel.
Being a watcher is easy money, only don’t get noticed.
There’d be a professional stationed somewhere nearby. I’d never be able to spot them. They’d be too good.
That was it. I was getting out of there.
I didn’t much care for being followed, no matter who was following me and for what reason. Whoever was pulling the strings was something of a klutz, but even a clodhopping fool can kill you. The incompetence didn’t rule out some serious fucking people.
Throwing down a ten euro note, I rose from my seat and strode briskly from the cerveceria. Not looking left or right, I ran up the steps two at a time, passing the man with the book who studiously paid no heed to me. That proved it. No way do you blithely ignore a man running upstairs in the heat. He should at least have looked up or raised an eyebrow.
Panting, I reached the top and darted through the ancient archway and around the back of the cathedral entering into the narrow, gothic streets of the old town. I ducked and weaved my way through them until I was satisfied that no one was following, or, at least, that no one was hard on my heels.
I needed to lie low somewhere for a while before considering my next move. But where? The answer appeared in front of my eyes as I rounded the next corner: Scrawled in chalk on the wall was the word ‘putas’ with an arrow beneath it.
Whores. Why not? I could get off the streets and I hadn’t had a good fuck in days.
I followed the direction of the arrow, arriving at a junction where there was another scribbled direction pointing the way to the ‘burdel’. I rounded the corner and saw a black, nondescript door leading into a tumbledown house. The shutters were drawn and on the one nearest the door was written:
‘negras = 10e; romani = 15e; espanolas = 20e’
You’ll know that Spain has stamped out racism when they start charging the same amount for their hookers. I looked more closely and, to my surprise, I made out beneath the price list the words: ‘Inglesa = 30e’. This was added in a different hand. An English prostitute in a rundown brothel in Girona?
She was probably some Spanish girl with her hair bleached blonde speaking pidgin English. A grotesque parody of Englishness for fantasist locals.
I rapped on the door and waited a few moments. No response. I knocked again. This time I heard movement from within. After half a minute or so, the door opened to reveal a dark, greasy haired Spaniard. He was short and slight, but had a dangerous look about him.
He was the kind of guy you didn’t want to let out of your sight, unless you wanted to find yourself a hundred euros poorer, and two pints of blood lighter. And he was ugly in a violent kind of a way, a big, deep scar across his cheek and missing one of his front teeth.
He grinned at me. It was a humourless, sinister smile and it made me want to sock him.
“No ab-low es-pan-yol,” I said carefully.
“Is no problem. We have English girl. Only trentay oor-o. You want? She is very good fuck.”
“Sure.” Perhaps she’d be able to understand fully the acts of depravity I wanted her to perform.
Beaming, he motioned me in, closing the door behind me. He held out his rough, gnarled hand, palm upwards and I reached into my wallet and extracted a twenty and a ten. I placed them unceremoniously into his grasping fingers. He nodded.
“Please you go upstairs. First room on left no es occupado. Wait there.”
I did as I was told. The room was soiled and squalid, the walls yellow and streaked with grime and the bed workmanlike and uncomfortable looking. The sunlight broke through the ageing shutters in bright streaks in which motes of filth orbited one another.
The venerable mattress and the sheets needed to be washed. In fact, they needed to be purified in the heat of a furnace. The room reeked of illicit sex. Grubby, musty, seedy. It smelled of sex at its most fundamental, its most raw.
No one had ever made love in this room. They had only fucked like animals and later felt ashamed of their lust. No spooning, no whispering in each other’s ears, barely any words, only libidinous desire and sweat and semen.
I could hear a couple wordlessly screwing through the flimsy wall. The creak of the bed, their harsh rasping breaths. The place was nasty, inhuman, sordid. My cock was already getting hard.
I took off my shirt and tossed it into the corner of the room. I wondered what was taking so long. Not that it mattered overmuch. I was in no hurry.
The pair next door finished up with a loud, masculine, urgent grunt. And I heard the sound of someone hurriedly dressing. There was a surprisingly decorous “gracias” from the john, then they made their adioses, the door opening and closing.
Shortly thereafter I recognised the voice of the swarthy pimp who’d shown me in. I could picture his sneering features. Then there came a rejoinder from a gentler female voice. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, and even if I could I wouldn’t have understood it. They fell silent and I heard footsteps in the corridor. The door to the room opened.
She was stunning. Garbed only in a white dressing gown, she stood in the doorway, one hand upon the knob. She smiled at me, it was a pretty smile although it was belied by the rest of her features.
The smile did not play upon her startlingly blue eyes, which remained inscrutable. Maybe it was because she was so very beautiful, and so out of place, but she seemed a tragic, otherworldly figure, as if her entrance ought to be accompanied by some mass of Bach’s in a minor key.
The dressing gown was folded loosely, formlessly about her, but could not conceal her magnificent figure. The gown gapped slightly at her bosom, revealing the uppermost part of her cleavage. Her breasts curved elegantly. On the upper part of her sternum I could make out blot which was unmistakeably drying semen. There was a rivulet of it cloying upon her right cheek to boot. The john had obviously blown his load directly in her lovely face. Somehow that struck me as being rude.
Her hair was sandy blonde, her lips full and red and her cheeks were slightly flushed.
“English?” she said.
“Just let me get cleaned up. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Okay.” My throat was dry. She turned and walked away, her gait was languorous and her large, beautifully rounded arse swayed sensuously to and fro. She was Veronica Lake, she was Grace Kelly, she was Marilyn fucking Monroe.
What the fuck was a goddess like that doing in a hellhole like this? I could scarcely conceive of the misfortunes that had led her to this pass, and, for that matter, I could hardly believe my own good luck. That I was going to be able to have her. I’d already paid for her upfront.
Her absence from the room seemed interminable, building in me an erotic suspense I had not experienced since my earliest adolescent fumblings and awaking some long dead poetic sensibility in me, a sensibility I thought had been extinguished by colluding so closely with death for so many years.
She was, I thought, another Iris, a votary of colour and beauty and divinity. I wanted now not just to fuck her, I thought in my feverish suspense, but to worship her and be redeemed by her.
At long last she returned, her blonde hair wet from her shower, the cumstain gone from her chest. She wore once more the white dressing gown, but I could see that her breasts were now restrained by a black negligee.
Coolly, she looked me up and down. “Well – what’s your pleasure?”
“You get straight to business, huh?”
“Sorry. You didn’t seem like the sort who’d want to chat,” she said without emotion.
“I like to treat my whores like human beings.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel the same way about johns.” A faint trace of a smile played across her features.
“Careful now, I don’t tip so good if I feel slighted.”
“In which case I think you’re a wonderful man, with wonderful, humane qualities, who pays for a fuck just wonderfully.”
I laughed. “For someone living in a glass house you sure love to throw rocks. In case you’d forgotten, there are two people involved in this transaction.”
“Three if you count Pedro out there. Two of us have the economic power, giving and receiving the money. And one of us just gets fucked.”
“Sounds like one of us needs better representation.”
She smiled. “Tell me about it. Hell of a way to exist – ‘Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty …’ ”
I recognised the verse. “Hamlet,” I said as matter-of-factly as I could muster.
“You are a man of hidden depths, Mr …”
“Ah yes. First name John? Mr Smith, in this profession one meets many men who share your name,” she said archly.
“But not many who have your good looks and self assurance. Surely you don’t have to pay for a fuck.”
“One learns so many things in a brothel,” I said vaguely. “How about you? How come you’re here? What the fuck did you do? What’s your name?” I didn’t mean for so many questions to come tumbling out at once, and I felt foolish.
She answered only my last question, and it wasn’t much of an answer at that: “The name’s Smith,” she said with a disingenuous smile.
She fell silent and looked away, then shrugged off her dressing gown revealing her black, lacy teddy.
“I believe, Mr Smith, that you paid for my cunt. Unless you handed over ready money for my sparkling conversation.”
I nodded. “I paid for your cunt … and for whatever else is on offer.”
She was silent a moment, then said quietly and forcefully: “I don’t do anal.”
From the moment the words left her lips, I wanted nothing more than to take her arse.
“Why not?” I asked casually.
“Never have. I guess I’d feel too dirty.” She laughed. “Sounds odd coming from a whore doesn’t it?”
I wasn’t to be deterred. “Any chance you’d change your mind?”
I considered a moment. “I bet I can make you beg me to fuck your arsehole.”
“I daresay you could,” she said steadily. “You have a wintry look about you. Hard, determined. You’re a man who can get what he wants. You know, I’m sure, that all I have to do is scream and Pedro will be in here. And he’s a hard man too.”
“Jesus,” I said, grinning, “I wasn’t threatening you. I meant that I can get you so worked up that you’ll want me in your arse. You’ll invite me in.”
She looked critical. “You know that myth about whores never cumming with their clients. Turns out – it’s not a myth.”
“I’ve factored that in.”
“So, Svengali, let me get this straight – you can turn me on so much that I’ll overcome my distaste, let go my inhibitions and forget I’m a pro,” she said scornfully.
“As our American cousins might say – you can bet your ass I will.”
She seemed a little taken a back by my confidence, and smiled a little, though it was a false, coquettish pornstar sort of a smile.
The challenge continued to hang in the stale air, and behind the false, pouting smile, I thought I detected a little excitement. “You’re on,” she said huskily. “But don’t get your hopes up.”
She stood before me in her lonely slip, whose material was opaque but clearly outlined her nipples, and failed to cover her skimpy black knickers.
I stood admiring her a while, enjoying the sight of her near-nakedness in the streaky afternoon light.
It was hot, and beads of sweat were just forming above her cleavage. Her breasts were high and firm, holding the material of the loose-fitting teddy away from her belly. Her thighs were toned and pale and smooth. I noticed that she wasn’t wearing anything on her feet.
“So,” she said at last, arching her left eyebrow, “you think you’ve got game. Impress me.”
I needed no further invitation: I rose from the bed and grasped her shoulders firmly, holding her fast in front of me. I stared intently down into her eyes, which darted uneasily too and fro before reluctantly returning my gaze.
After a while she tried to pull away and I prevented her. I wanted her to know who was boss, that I could take her however I pleased.
She hated it.
Some women like to be dominated, but she didn’t. She evidently liked to be in control.
Fuck, I had forgotten she was a whore. No naughty girl, dirty girl fantasies – no rape fetish. She’d fucking lived it. Men had paid to use and abuse her body, had brutalised and pounded away any feminine impulse towards submissiveness or masochism.
If I wanted to fuck her arse, then I would need to be gentler, more circumspect. I relented; gently hugging her and inclining my head forward in order to kiss her softly on the lips. I felt her body relax a little.
She kissed me back and hard, thrusting her tongue into my mouth, working her lips against mine. Her hands clasped my shoulder blades and, standing on tiptoe, she pressed her breasts into my chest, her nipples felt hard through the fabric of the cheap, flimsy teddy.
We had tussled briefly for control and she had, for the moment, triumphed. I was prepared to cede control of the situation to her. In that embrace and that kiss, we each learned a little about one another’s predilections, about what we wanted and how much we were prepared to sacrifice.
And she was turned on. At least, the kiss seemed genuine enough.
Her hand snaked down across my naked chest, down across my stomach, resting just above the belt of my trousers. She paused a little, then kissed my neck and moved her hand down, so it was resting against my stiffening cock. She began to rub it through the loose woven cotton, rasping out a manifestly fake Hollywood groan as she did so. I couldn’t resist a grin.
She loosened my belt and slipped her hand under the waistline of my trousers, and I breathed in to accommodate her. She deftly manoeuvred her hand through the fly of my boxers and her palm moved against my naked shaft.
Her fingers arched downwards towards the head of my cock. She gasped another ersatz gasp and she widened her eyes in pseudo surprise.
“It’s so big,” she purred.
I wasn’t buying it. She must have had bigger cocks than mine, and, besides, she wasn’t that good an actress. This was all business patter for her.
I imagined her in the next room with her Spanish John. Oh! she’d say in her practised silken tones. Es muy grande!
She kissed me on the cheek as she continued to rub and grasp at my cock, feeling it harden against her palm. After a few moments, she pulled her hand out, and guided me gently back onto the bed.
I didn’t resist, sat upon it and leaned languidly against the wall. She stood back from me and pursed her lips lasciviously. She proceeded to lean forward, showing off her impressive cleavage, and tightening her thigh and calf muscles in order to exhibit her smooth, wonderfully sculpted legs.
She licked her lips. Can you believe, she said wordlessly in her expression and in her stature, that you are going to get to fuck me? Me – an unutterably beautiful woman?
I gave her the dazed, breathless little half-smile she seemed to be inviting. This was her comfort-zone. An awestruck trick, semi-hard cock in his hand and she in control. Showing, offering, eventually granting.
She began a languorous, well-rehearsed striptease. In no hurry to remove her scanty clothes, she moved her hands across her body, swaying her hips easily to and fro as she did so. She lifted her breasts together and smiled absently at me.
Fuck, she was gorgeous. I’d wager a good many of her more excitable clients had cum just watching the show. An easy fifteen minutes’ work.
She turned her back to me and leaned away, showing off her plump, curved arse. Swaying her hips, she danced to some unheard music. The motion of her posterior was mesmeric. Slowly moving back and forth, now rotating, now shimmying in the hazy, grimy, sleepy Spanish afternoon. She had become Salome dancing in the desert heat.
I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my jeans and squirmed out of them, pulled my cock from my boxer shorts and slowly worked my fist around it as I watched her.
Still facing away from me, she pulled the straps of her teddy down over her shoulders and slowly danced herself out of it. It fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. She toyed with the elastic of her knickers, pulling it out with her thumbs, and releasing it so that it snapped back against her skin.
She moved her hands round in front of her and out of my sight. She remained in that posture for the longest time, her head slightly askance. Her knickers seemed incongruous on her. She looked rather like a bowdlerised statue of Artemis.
Unhurriedly, she turned, clasping her tits. I continued my leisurely, lazy wank as she exposed her breasts to me by degrees. She massaged them lethargically, then commenced moving her hands over them in circular motions, her pretty rose-pink nipples occasionally emerging from behind her fingers.
At length, she removed her hands altogether, leaving her nipples exposed and tremblingly erect.
Slowly, slowly, slowly she removed her knickers. Her pussy was shaven, save for a strip of wispy, golden pubic hair above it. She stood naked before me.
Now she was Artemis indeed. Divine, forbidden. I felt that I would be transfigured and undone for my sin in witnessing such exposed beauty.
She again cupped her breasts, and tugged lightly at her nipples, then smiled appreciatively at my erection.
“Want me to suck it?” she asked. And in an instant metamorphosed from unearthly goddess to earthy whore.
I collected myself and by way of answer, scrambled out of my boxers and shifted myself forward on the bed, perching on the edge of it.
Getting down onto her hands and knees she crawled towards me, a filthy, demoniacal look in her eye. On reaching me, she squatted back onto her haunches, her face so near me that I could feel her warm breath on my cock. She grasped me at the base of my shaft. My tip glistened with precum, my penis twitched in anticipation.
She didn’t stand for much ceremony and proceeded to take my head into her mouth. This was to be no holds barred cocksucking.
She rolled her tongue around the head of my dick and sucked, licking all around it and probing at my peehole. After the torpor of the striptease, this new urgency took me by surprise.
It occurred to me that this sudden ardour was a strategy: She was looking for the quick cum. A quick suck and a quick fuck and I’d be exhausted and her arse would be safe.
This woman gave a very good blowjob. Her tongue was frenzied against my sensitive head. I groaned a little, and surrendered to the sensations she was awaking in me. All right – she could have my first cum, but I hadn’t lost sight of the endgame.
She took me deeper into her mouth, swallowing me inch by inch, until she had half of my length in her mouth. Her tongue wagged and thrashed against my shaven shaft.
I was transported, utterly enraptured by her. Short, intense thrills of pure sordid lust transfixed me, wracking my entire body. I felt like I’d been winded.
She turned her attention back to the head of my cock, her teeth grazing it as she moved back up to it. The bursts of pleasure intensified, each one a harbinger of the paradise to come. This was the best blowjob I’d ever had. Again, she worked her mouth on it in a frenzy. She grabbed my shaft with her hand and worked it up and down. Sucking and licking and nibbling at my head as she did so. We both knew I wasn’t going to last long.
She desisted in licking my cock, and instead began in earnest to wank me off. Gazing intently up at me as she did so. Her left hand reached underneath me to toy with my balls. I could feel my orgasm now, sense its inevitability and its magnitude.
Still furiously rubbing my cock, she leaned forward and kissed my balls. She sucked on them one at a time, and swilled her tongue around them in a long fluid motion. Then she took my hairless ball sack entirely into her mouth. She must have felt my bollocks tighten in her mouth, I was so close.
She gripped my shaft hard, strangling my climax, and stopping my semen in its tracks. Christ, I felt like I was going to explode. Leaving my balls, she moved her face back around in front of me. And still grasping the base of my cock firmly, began once again to suck on it.
She took me deeper this time, swallowing my length as far as she was able with her hand upon me. My head was at her throat. My cock jerked and spasmed now, crying out for release. The sensation was overpowering. Intense, and not a little painful.
Sensing my discomfort she moved her mouth back to the tip of my cock and sucked on it.
Then, at long, long last, she relinquished her grip on my shaft. I groaned as I came, shooting load after load into her gorgeous mouth. She swallowed most of it down, but when I had finished, a streak of semen ran from the corner of her mouth down to her chin.
She smiled victoriously up at me.
I returned the smile, and raised it to a predatory leer. I watched her triumphant expression fade, and morph into one of consternation and uncertainty.
It was my turn.
I crouched down next to her, and turned her head to face me and kissed her softly on the lips. I could taste my own cum in her mouth, but that didn’t phase me. My tongue met with hers, and moved slowly against it. I moved my hands to her breasts, feeling her nipples hard against my hand. Her tits were firm and yet pliant.
In stark contrast to her methods, I was going to take my time pleasuring her. I wanted to take her up the arse, and the best way to do that was to make myself the architect of a monumental orgasm.
I kissed her harder, and lightly pinched her left nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Then, manoeuvring myself around her, I gently pushed her backward, catching her behind her shoulders with my right arm, and forcing my left beneath her knees. I scooped her up and stood, holding her in my arms.
She was surprisingly light. I placed her delicately down on the bed. Her expression now was tractable and amused, ready to allow me my attempt at arousing her, and sceptical of my chances.
And yet, her body belied her. Her nipples were hard, and her breath a little short. I lightly traced her slit with my middle finger and her legs involuntarily opened a little to accommodate me.
I was pleased to note that she was already a little wet.
I began to explore her body with my hands and lips, kissed her neck, her sternum, her sides. My hands worked around her waist, her armpits and her thighs. She tasted a little of soap, mingled with the salt of her sweat.
I was here and there and everywhere, lingering a while at her bellybutton, passing quickly over her breasts and nipples. I was careful to mark her response. She liked it when I tickled her behind her knee, shuddered a little when I kissed her ear, and when I touched her toes.
Slowly, painstakingly I mapped her sexual predilections and peccadilloes. I ignored those areas where she was unresponsive, and took especial care to stimulate her where she desired it. I loitered for a long time around her midriff, stroking her smooth belly, and kissing her navel. She gave a small moan of pleasure, which she quickly suppressed.
She was enjoying my unhurried attentions, but was a little bemused by them. I had caught her on the back foot. She was unused to this level of assiduity from a john.
My whole object was to perpetrate a confidence trick, to make her feel in that moment like she was my sweetheart and I hers.
I began to pay attention to her breasts. I rested my hands on them, and kissed my way up to them. I proceeded to suck on and lightly tug at her nipples with my teeth.
I spread her legs to give me access to her inner thighs. Just by looking at her pussy, I could see that she was highly aroused. Her cuntlips were engorged and pink, and her juices were visibly flowing. I kissed her left thigh, my lips tantalisingly close to her womanhood. I felt her whole body tremble in anticipation.
I knew it was time to raise the stakes.
Hesitating only a moment, I kissed her vulva. She gave a low moan of relief as I worked my lips against hers.
Opening my mouth a little, I pressed my tongue against her swollen pussy, savouring the sharp taste of her arousal. She began urgently to writhe her hips about, grinding her cunt against my face, and making her impatience abundantly clear to me.
I needed no further urging, and began to lick her up and down with long insistent strokes of my tongue. She was thrusting herself against me now, and I grabbed her waist with both hands to steady her. I pushed my tongue as deep as I could inside her and flicked it upwards toward her clit.
“Oh, fuck, yeah,” she gasped and I felt her fanny twitch and convulse around me. I changed the angle of my attack, and began to run my tongue in circles against her hard little bud.
She gasped and I could tell that she was really getting into it now. I stopped licking her and grasped her pudendum firmly between my thumb and forefinger, pinching the folds of her flesh together over her clit. I just held her like that for a moment, and let her do the work herself, bucking her hips and using my fingers to wank herself.
Spreading her lips once more, I recommenced my oral onslaught against her clit. Expertly, I rolled my tongue and took her erect little nub inside it, fucking it back and forth. This drove her wild, and she began to thrash about, crying for me to continue. I gently nibbled on her sensitive centre. And pulled her this way and that with my tongue.
I slowed a little, and holding my tongue against her clit, I began to hum, trying to maintain a steady baritone.
She moaned her appreciation.
My face was still buried deep in her cunt, and I was still humming on her clit, when I heard the door open behind me. Swiftly, I moved my hand to continue the work of my tongue and teeth, and looked around. It seemed that she was oblivious to the intrusion and was mauling and tugging at her nipples with her eyes tightly closed as I arched my fingers upward to tickle her g-spot.
The Morisco pimp stood in the doorway. He grinned a knowing, disgusting sort of a grin.
“You have been long time …” he observed. “Other men wait.” Wordlessly, the fingers of my right still flexing and twisting inside her vagina, my thumb upon her clit, I reached for my trousers with my left. I pulled out my wallet, deftly flipped it open and then more awkwardly pulled out a fifty euro note. I screwed it up and threw it in his direction.
He stooped to pick it up and smiled lecherously, before turning and walking out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The grasping bastard could have waited.
I returned my attention to the squirming, spasming whore before me. I pulled my fingers out from inside her and guided her right hand down to take my place at her clit. Eagerly, she began rubbing herself. Then, grasping both her legs, I lifted her hips slightly, inclined my head downwards, and began forcefully licking her arsehole. She squealed her surprise, but the shock didn’t interrupt her vigorous masturbation, only intensified it.
She loved my tongue on her pungent, forbidden little hole.
I kissed it like I was kissing her on the mouth or on the cunt, full and deep and without reservation.
“You dirty fucking bastard,” she gasped in lust and disbelief.
Stiffening my tongue as much as I was able, I pushed it deeper inside her, greedily licking the most private, intimate area of her body, sampling its musky, heady delights.
I spread her arsecheeks apart, gapping her dark, dusky little opening a little more. I lapped at her greedily, teasing her sensitive ring, questing and tasting ever deeper into her secret, nasty little bumhole.
Her sphincter was tight even against my tongue, and I could well believe she had never been taken up the arse before. Spreading her still further open, I began to lick the upper wall of her anus. The sounds of my slurping, gourmandising arse-eating mingled with her groans of pleasure.
Her hand was now moving furiously against her clit and I felt her arsehole beginning to clench around my tongue and guessed that her orgasm was near.
Now was my chance. Now that I had worked her up into a frenzy, and had fetishised her arsehole, I could at last obtain my goal.
All at once I desisted my oral assault on her ass, and swiftly grabbed both of her hands, pinning her back against the bed. Immobilised, she began to writhe and contort herself, seeking to complete the climax which had been so suddenly denied her.
I looked her in the eye and said: “I’ll let you cum, if you give me your arse.”
She gazed up at me in fear and yearning. She struggled against my grip, testing my strength and my resolve, before she at last submitted to me and agreed to my ultimatum.
“Okay!” she panted, thrashing about helplessly in my grasp, trying in vain to rub her clit against my leg, against the bed clothes, anything to get herself off. “You win! I want you to fuck me in my arse. I want your cock in my little, tight arsehole.”
I held her for another few seconds.
“You fucking bastard! Fuck my fucking arse!”
“Please, please, please, please.”
I released her and she scrambled round onto her front, grabbing a pillow and putting it underneath her belly as she did so. She lay prostrate before me with her tight, puckered arsehole elevated and exposed. I advanced toward her. My dick was rock hard and I was alive with, and almost overcome by, the anticipation of taking her anal virginity.
I pressed my helmet against her dark, forbidden little hole.
“Wait!” she said suddenly and urgently. She opened the drawer of the nightstand, reached into it and retrieved some lubricant. “Please use this.”
I obliged her. I squirted a generous helping onto my hand and massaged it onto my cock. I then squirted some more directly onto her arsehole. She moaned as I rubbed it around her and worked it a little inside with my index finger. Fuck, she was tight.
This was going to be fantastic.
Now that she was sufficiently lubed, I again pressed my cock at her rear entrance. Again she cried fearfully:
“I hope you’re not going to walsh on our deal,” I said reproachfully. My arousal was at such a feverish pitch, it was all I could do not to just take her hard then and there.
“No,” she said softly. “But if we’re going to do this, I’d like to have some control. Please. You lie down and I’ll lower myself onto you.”
I demurred and stood back as, trembling like a leaf, she stood up from the bed. I lay down in her place, my greasy, glistening cock pointing upward.
She straddled me and grabbed my slippery dick, guiding it towards my prize. She sat back a little and I was once again tantalisingly close to my goal. I felt my head against her arsehole once more.
Very gingerly, she lowered herself onto my cock. Oh god, she was so tight.
“Fuck,” she gasped as my cockhead began to enter her arse, “it’s like being a virgin again.”
I felt a pop as her sphincter opened and her eyes widened in surprise.
“You’re cock is inside my ass,” she whispered in disbelief. She lowered herself a little more, the lubricant helping me to penetrate just a little deeper. Her anus was vicelike, her muscles contracting hard against my cock. “Oh fuck,” she breathed. “It hurts.”
“Relax,” I said soothingly, although I was sorely tempted to knock her right arm out from under her to cause her to fall and force my whole cock up inside her all at once.
I managed to remain patient. I didn’t really want to hurt her, and, besides, I was enjoying my slow progress into her tight, trembling arse.
“I can take it, I can take it, I can take it.” She repeated the phrase like a mantra. She breathed deeply a couple of times and I felt her arsehole relax a little, and by gently, slowly, lowering herself slightly, she was able admit another inch or so of my length. She moaned.
I could see her pussy lips twitching and her clit shuddering and feel her sphincter clenching and unclenching around my cock.
Another deep breath, another centimetre yielded to me.
At that moment, with that last secession, she found that she was enjoying herself. To her evident surprise, she discovered that she rather liked having a cock in her arse.
“Oh yeah,” she said vigorously, her eyes afire, “you’re fucking cock is deep in my dirty fucking arsehole. Is it fucking tight enough for you?”
I nodded mutely. It was fucking tight enough.
With that, she lost what remained of her inhibitions, and sat abruptly down upon my cock, taking almost my full length inside her. She leant forward, putting her hands upon my shoulders, and began to rock her arse forwards and backwards. Slowly at first, then getting quicker and more urgent.
“I can’t believe you’re in my fucking arse,” she panted. “And it feels fucking fantastic.”
She sat back up again, moving her left arm behind her onto the bed to steady her. Her right hand flew to her clit, which seemed urgently to require attention. She rubbed it with animalistic abandon, caring nothing now for nicety, only for her looming orgasm.
She squatted up and down on my cock, and I moved my hips to match her rhythm, ensuring as I did so that she was still in control. Her fingers moved wildly against her clit, pulling it this way and that and tugging at it. She was becoming more and more earnest in her movements and I could feel her climax building.
Her anal muscles were squeezing my cock more rapidly and more insistently now and the mouth of her pussy was convulsing. Her fingers were mauling her clit ever more quickly and ever more viciously. I could feel my own climax nearing as she urgently ground her arse up and down the length of my cock.
She gave a strangled yell as she came, and her cunt heaved and spasmed. Her arse gripped my cock spasmodically and without rhythm and she threw her head back. She squirted a little warm liquid onto my stomach and I couldn’t tell if it was piss or pussy juice. At that moment I didn’t much care.
Before she had time to collect herself, or to come down fully from her orgasm, I guided her off my rockhard cock and onto her front, positioning the pillow once more beneath her to raise her twitching arsehole toward me. It was still a little agape as I once again guided my cockhead to her entrance. This time there was no reluctance and no protestation as I forced myself inside her.
I reached beneath her to her soaking pussy, and pushed two fingers inside it as I began earnestly to fuck her in her arse. Her hand joined with mine as she reached down to rub her clit.
She was quickly nearing once more the peak of her orgasm, as the insistent nature of her assault on her clit, and the rapid contractions of her sphincter against my cock attested.
Her pussy muscles, clenched and unclenched around my finger, and she screamed out her ecstasy into the dirty bedclothes.
I felt my own arsehole tighten, and knew that my own climax was close. Fuck, it was going to be a big one. I increased my pace, thrusting my cock rapidly in and out of her arse. Then, at last, I came.
It was a much more powerful orgasm than my first; partly because it was much more hard fought, and partly because her arsehole was so very tight and so forbidden.
My balls tensed, and my shaft twitched and tautened and I exploded deep in her arse, squirting four or five times before I was spent.
I pulled my cock out, and her twitching arsehole ejected a little of my cum, which ran slowly down towards her pussy.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” she said in disbelief. “That was amazing. I never knew what I’d been missing …”
“No need to thank me.”
She collected herself a little. “No, no. I must thank you. You’ve opened up my arse and a whole new revenue stream for me.”
“Just like a whore, it doesn’t take long to remember the money,” I laughed.
“Just like a whore – because no one else ever thinks about fucking or surviving,” she replied smartly.
I climbed off the bed and began to dress myself. She did likewise.
“Guess I’ll be walking like John Wayne tomorrow,” she said sheepishly, as she pulled on her knickers. I laughed politely and turned from her. I buckled my trousers, and pulled on my shirt.
She stole up beside me as I did so.
“I’m in trouble,” she breathed in my ear. “I can’t explain now. Meet me at ten on the Passeig de la Muralla. Please.”
And she turned and was gone.
My reflex was to help her. Maybe it was some chemical response in my postcoital brain, or some chivalry or chauvinism in me, but I was convinced that I ought to rescue her. She had moved through a series of female tropes for me; from goddess, to whore, to damsel in distress.
What she had never yet seemed to me was a human being.
Peculiarly for a paranoiac like me, it didn’t even enter into my head that her request might be a trap.
Scooping up my wallet, I left the room, and descended the rickety stairs.
My hand on the doorknob, I heard a filthy cackle from behind me. I turned. The pimp sneered derisively at me.
“She let you fuck her up her culo?” he grinned. “Ha! Ha! ‘Oh meester, I so scared. You so big. You pay Pedro cincuenta euros.’ Ha! Ha! She play you like a matador. She lower the cape and muleta, and you charge. She is good little whore, no?”
I did not dignify him with a response, but immediately left, slamming the door behind me. His laughter followed me down the cobbled street. It was absurd. He didn’t see. She didn’t play me, I played her. And she wasn’t acting or faking. No one’s that good. It was absurd. He didn’t know.
I didn’t forget to listen out for footsteps behind me, nor to glance into the doorways and alleyways I passed. I wasn’t being followed. The streets of the old town were deserted.
I hurried back to the hotel to shower. Having washed the stench of sex off myself, I collapsed naked onto the bed and dozed a while.
I roused myself at twenty past nine, threw on some fresh clothes and struck out for the appointed rendezvous.
It was dusky and oddly quiet. There weren’t many people around, and not much traffic. I crossed the square to the river, walking briskly up the Passeig Canalajes and over the bridge.
It was a pleasant evening, wonderfully cool after the intense heat of the day, and my stroll south along the river was an agreeable one.
I wondered as I walked what sort of trouble the beautiful whore was in. Had she been kidnapped and trafficked? Was she addicted to drugs? Had she robbed her pimp?
Whatever it was, I had determined to rescue her. I was surprised by the fanciful imaginings I began to have of our moonlit meeting, of her hushed, urgent tones pleading with my strength and masculinity to help her in her weakness and desperation.
I fantasised in the twilight of her rescue and of our lovemaking afterwards. God help me, I even began to imagine us married and in a little cottage in the Cotswalds with two pretty little children.
I shook myself out of my reverie as I reached the Plaza Catalunya and crossed it, making for the Muralla gardens.
The ancient city wall ran alongside the steep incline of the Passeig de Muralla itself. I glanced at my watch. It was ten to ten.
I walked up the ancient street, picking my way carefully in the darkness. About half way up the street I noticed a figure hunched up against the wall. I knew at once there was something terribly wrong. It was preternaturally still, and awkwardly positioned.
Even at that distance, in that darkness, I could tell that I was looking at a dead body.
My heart was pounding in my ears as I approached, and the night suddenly seemed icy cold as I approached.
I stood in something tacky and knew without looking down that it was blood.
As I came almost within touching distance, I heaved a sigh of relief. I could see by the moonlight that this was clearly a man’s body. It wasn’t her.
It wasn’t her.
I crouched down next to the corpse and lifted its face upward, coating my hands in blood as I did so.
What the hell?
It was her pimp, still leering at me, though now in a rictus death grin. His throat had been cut.
I felt a sickening sense of dread.
I had no time to collect my thoughts as I heard men running towards me. I instinctively made to fly, but was thwarted by the sound of footsteps in the other direction. I had no time even to scale the wall.
The men in the darkness were almost upon me.
“Polizia! Polizia!” they bellowed and I was cornered. What the fuck.