To this day, the twenty-first of March remains my favourite day of the year. Now I know what you’re thinking: it’s probably because it’s my birthday or the day that I got a promotion. Perhaps, even because it’s sometimes one of the days when summer reveals itself to the nation through the premature omen of unseasonable weather. However, you’d be wrong on all accounts. The twenty-first of March is my favourite day simply because, two years ago, I managed to fuck three different women in one single day.
When the sunlight hit the bobbled bedsheets of the dusty, stuffy room I woke in, I stretched and yawned. Next to me, the stranger was sleeping, her face full of makeup, smeared with flattering reds in her cheeks and clown-like blues around her eyes. I patted my cock. Bone dry. I used that as enough evidence to reassure me that we had indeed not had sex the night previous. Sitting up, I fetched my jeans and began to put on my shoes, when I heard her croaky, northern accent behind me.
“Where you going, big fella?” the stranger asked, her dry voice like a percussion instrument, her generously-sized tits swaying in their unsensible, gaudy pink lace bra. I shrugged.
“Gonna go fetch some brekkie down the cafe.” I hoped she didn’t ask for any food. I’d already forked out on an Uber home and a kebab for her, which didn’t even make it past the curb, dropping it on the pavement, its greasy contents sprawled everywhere.
Without warning, she crawled over her sun-faded duvet towards me, unzipped my jeans, and freed half of it, starting to lick my tip. Her smudged, rose-red lips over my cock, made it thump and pulse as she ran a warm, sticky tongue up and down my shaft like an artist working a canvas. She guided my hands behind her head of ginger hair, prompting me to face fuck her, to which I obliged, thrusting my cock violently down her throat, aroused at the strange sucking and gagging sounds coming from her stuffed mouth and dripping chin. Removing my cock, I looked down at her. She closed her eyes in dazed anticipation, as I slapped my prick against her cheeks like a mallet against a kettledrum.
“I got my period last night,” the stranger said, almost as if to tease me.
“OK?” I said, slapping my cock on her nose playfully, “So… what does that mean, for me?” The stranger paused for a moment, before biting her lip.
“It means,” she began, turning away from me, arching her butt, revealing a white thong wedged between her enormous backside, etched with faint ripples of cellulite, “that I want you to pump my fat arse and leave me with a load that I can play with and feast on all afternoon.”
Moments later, my cock, slathered in the dregs of lube left in her scrunched bottle of KY Jelly, a finger full of Vaseline, and a gob full of spit, was prying her virginal arsehole open. I watched the thin blue tail of a tampon trail out of her stubbly cunt, pulling on her plaited hair like a stubborn mare, calling her every degrading name under the sun until finally, shooting a sticky load of semen deep inside her. After she sucked me deep, cleaning my cock, tenderly, I asked her what she wanted from the cafe, but we both knew that I wouldn’t be back, perhaps ever.
Hopping into my Astra, I eased out into the road and made my way towards The Barrowman pub. It was nearly midday. Although I felt nauseous, and indeed hungry, what I needed was a nice cold pint. Hair of the dog is more important than a dog having his day, or his dinner (in my case, breakfast). Taking a shortcut, down Shaftesbury road, I revved my engine, bopping my head along to the breakbeat of a hypnotic D&B classic, when instinctively, I slammed hard onto the brakes. My car skidded along the street for about five meters before finally stopping, less than half a metre away from where the girl in the middle of the street stood. Like a deer in headlights, she froze, her arm raised in shielding her dainty torso, her leg lifted in anticipation of a collision that never came. I leaned my head out of the window.
“You wanna watch where you’re going!” I said to her, half-shouting. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
“If I had any luck,” she said, walking across the road to a bench. Parking up next to her, I wound down my window. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old; skinny, like one of those models you might see at a fashion show, with wacky-looking celebrities in the front row. She had a bird-like head, her tawny hair joined into a ponytail, wearing an immodest denim skirt that rose up towards her crotch. Her face was heavy with sadness.
“You OK, love?” I asked her
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m grand,” she said nonchalantly.
“Need a lift somewhere?” I asked. She sat there.
Finally, she agreed with a soft nod, entering the car and sitting in silence. She offered me a cigarette, which I accepted, the two of us smoking away while the music played. She told me that she’d just gone to visit her boyfriend, who she’d caught in bed with another woman— her sister’s best friend, Lacie Peters, who based on the stories that followed, was apparently not content in having shagged five other women’s fellas that year alone.
“I guess I knew it was coming,” the girl said, throwing her cigarette butt out of the passenger window, before lighting another. “I’d caught him wanking over her Instagram photos. Twice. He was a fucking fuckboy.”
“Was he a good shag at least?” I pried, trying to lighten the mood. The girl shrugged, indifferently.
“Fine. His brother was better.”
I didn’t bother asking the details of how she knew this; it seemed like too much drama for one day. As we zoomed down the sparsely populated lanes woven around town, I couldn’t help but smell the miasma of her cheap Red Jeans perfume; admire her sizeable breasts beneath her Primark, black tank top. Help but wonder what was lurking beneath her tiny Boohoo denim skirt; a skirt so short that it might as well have been a strip of indigo gaffer tape.
She asked me if I knew Ashford pool, and saying yes, submitted to her request of heading there. Along the way she told me how her boyfriend had never made her come, nor squirt during sex before, despite their numerous efforts; watching porn, playing with toys, and even inviting his mate Darren along to spit roast her. The girl had a nice face; a kind one that had once been innocent, but had been tainted and hardened over the years by tears, blowjobs, and deceitful men. As we parked up in front of the reservoir, a storm cloud loomed over the surrounding woodland.
“Do you think I’m buff?” the girl asked, sincerely.
“Of course,” I said, almost too quickly. “Wait— how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“How many lads have you had?” I asked, curiously. She counted with her fingers.
“Mmm— like, seventeen? About that.” I laughed to myself, accepting another cigarette from her. Watching a mallard flap its wings in the distance, taking off in flight, I felt a hand on my leg.
“You can fuck me if you want,” the girl said to me, indifferently. “I don’t mind. I shaved my fanny for my boyfriend, but it’s not like he’s interested. Plus I’m on the pill. You could come inside me ten whole times, and nothing would happen, they’re that strong. Plus, I’m really tight, you know. All the lads know that. Seventeen cocks and still tight, like a designer vagina.”
Raising her nimble lower legs onto the dashboard, she parked her scuffed ballerina flats, parting her legs for me to see. Her bare, unclothed, teenage pussy was hairless, her swollen vulva lightly speckled with ingrown hairs; the fallout from razor shaving. Her chubby bump, accented with thick pink labia that trailed down like a turkey’s neck, smelled like floral strawberries and faintly of something like hairspray. Reaching over to her crotch, I started playing with her pussy, teasing her lips with slow stroked and prods as she got wetter and wetter; wet so quickly that I nearly came myself from her excitement.
“Ah—,” she moaned, excitedly, “Uh— yeah slide two fingers inside me. Like that— uh, fuck. Three now. Ow! Uh— yes baby.” I handled her legs, spreading them wider across the dashboard.
“Finger-fuck my tight fanny.” Deeper, I fingered her, stimulating my cock with my free hand.
“Deeper,” she moaned, her tiny neck, swirling with pleasure. “Oh— deeper. Please?” I began fingering her deeper and faster; accurate and thorough, long prods, while she worked her clit violently, in rapid circular motions. Finally, after tending to it like a jeweller shining a diamond, a jet of liquid gushed from her crotch like a geyser, dousing her calves, christening the dusty dashboard in the process in a wave of pissy, clear liquid.
Taking her to the back seat of the car, she lay back against the scuffed leather, as I lifted her denim skirt, turning it inside out, completely exposing her lower half. The moment my pointed tongue met with the sticky inner layer of her labia, she began twitching, her legs raised high up towards the sunroof, as I probed the puffy nook of her vulva, trailing it in and outside of her messy, sticky lips. Her juices, running down from within her, tasted slightly sour; looked as creamy as yogurt, but I didn’t mind one bit. Forcing my cock into her hole, she closed her eyes, wincing as I stretched her open. I checked if she was OK.
“I’m fine— push harder,” she commanded, annoyance in her voice, as I guided myself into her tiny cunt, each of her thighs in my grip as I impaled her. Thrusting back and forwards in an off-beat rhythm, the car’s frame shook beneath the cover of a cluster of pine trees.
“Call me a slag,” she commanded. “I— uh, fuck. Yeah— like that. I love being called a slag. Gonna knock this cheap slag whore up? Uh— UH! Yeah. Gonna make me preggers and ruin my life? Put a fucking baby in my slaggy tummy?”
At that point, I couldn’t control myself any longer, and with a loud gasp, and the slowing of my vision, I released a heavy, sticky load, deep inside her warm, cosy hole. Pulling my cock out of the stranger slowly, spontaneously, it let out three more jets of semen, shooting over her black tank top, in three equal diagonal lines, the last ending on her bottom lip. Looking down at the streaks on her chest, she licked my remnant from around her mouth, laughing to herself, mopping her pussy with the purple, velour scrunchie released from her hair.
“My dad is gonna properly kill me,” she said, laughing to herself with perverse accomplishment.
***
It was past midnight when I woke up, face glued to the glossy, sticky surface of the bar. My eyes lolled and rolled around in their sockets, my mind heavy and foggy with alcohol, as I tried to navigate my surroundings. Sure enough, after a minute or two, I realised that I was in fact sitting at The Barrowman. Looking around, the pub itself was empty; the seats were vacant, and not a soul was present in the low, LED-lit, outdated room. Suddenly, behind the bar, I heard the clink of glass on glass. A head popped up and automatically, I screamed aloud.
“It’s only me, Gary!” the woman behind the bar said, hoisting a tray’s worth of clean beer glasses down beneath the beer taps, one by one. To call Charley a middle-aged woman, would be a generous statement; on the wrong end of forty, her years of sun beds, warehouse acid raves, and (if the rumours were to be believed) weekly dogging sessions up at Henderson Heath, had all caught up with her. Her greying pixie cut made her look more masculine than her already stocky body could afford, but her voice, eyes, and tits were all redeeming factors that kept her in the pervy good books of most local lads, who’d brag, drunkenly, about how it was they’d give her one.
“If anything, I should be screaming at the sight of you, mate. You look bloody homeless.”
“I feel bloody homeless,” I retorted, standing to my feet, my head spinning. ‘Where is everyone? Tyrone? Denny?” Charley shook her head with a taut grin.
“All gone home. Said you were a liability and a big boy who could take care of yourself. Tyrone wanted a curry, and when you wouldn’t wake up, they left soppy bollocks behind.” I slapped my crotch.
“My bollocks are anything but soppy, baby. Trust me on that one.” Charley chimed back with something witty, but I didn’t hear.
Warning me that she was five minutes away from locking up, I stumbled into the cold, airy atmosphere of the men’s bathroom, attempting to navigate the heavy scent of fake lemon, spilled beer, and stale farts without feeling nauseous. Releasing my cock, I hung it over the enamel urinal. Nothing. I spat, and strained, before finally, a jet of piss left my cock, spraying down into the gutter over layers of spent chewing gum and cigarette butts. The sound of brass knocking against wood startled me. I turned. Sure enough, there was Charley, standing in the doorway, leaning curiously in my direction with the grin of a predator in the chase.
“Don’t stop on my account,” she said, slowly pacing towards me, parking her arse on the bathroom sink. She watched my penis closely, held between my thumb and forefinger. Heavy with the weight of ten beers, horniness, and a sudden desire to please, I continued pissing. I watched her as her mouth opened with glee, her nipples hardening beneath her tight-fitting T-shirt, releasing an orgasmic sigh when the last bit of piss left my body.
“That was fun,” she said. “And a lot.”
“I’ve been drinking a lot of beer,” I informed, stupidly. She nodded.
“Want to watch me?” she asked, curiously.
With the widest grin, I agreed, watching her pull down her black tracksuit bottoms, before squatting in the corner of the urinal. Her pussy was so hairy that it was hard to see where the black bush ended and the black cotton of her tracksuit started. After ten seconds of waiting, a sharp-sounding jet of liquid flowed from between her thick thighs, the hairy forest of pubic hair watered with yellow, dehydrated urine. Standing up, she shook herself, sprinkling her knickers in the process, and looked me in the eye. Following her gaze, I watched her waddle over toward the rows of sinks, parking her arse in the space between the farthest two, before removing a trainer, letting the tracksuit dangle from just one leg. She gestured to me.
“Come on,” she said, earnestly. “Don’t pretend you haven’t wanted me for years. I’ve seen you perving on me.”
Hypnotically, I walked over towards her, kneeling on the cold, red tiles of the bathroom, taking in a deep whiff of her piss-soaked, hairy pussy as I kissed, sniffed, and licked. Her crotch smelled so strongly that I nearly gagged, and yet it made my cock instantly harder than any pussy ever has before or since; a deep, natural scent so layered in notes that it was neither completely pleasant nor repulsive. I ran my tongue over her unwashed bush, probing her lips as she lay back, arching herself, before freeing her heavy breasts from beneath her top. Releasing my sore, chafed cock from my boxers, I teased her bushy labia, up and down.
“Put it in,” she requested, eyes closed in desperate anticipation. “Go on. Stick that fat cock in my cunt, now. Go on babe.”
Her pussy was so warm that I almost came instantly, her juices trailing down my erect member as I gripped her tits, selfishly, fucking her deep and tenderly. She moaned.
“Yeah— like that. Grab my tits. Fuck me— yeah, that’s it darlin’,” she squeaked. “Quicker; fuck me! Oh, darlin’— you’re so deep. Oh— fuck, fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck. Yeah!”
There I stood, drunk out of my noggin, banging the landlady of The Barrowman for an hour straight. At some point within the tussle of flesh, she began to straddle me, awkwardly squatting over me between the chipped rims of the sinks, bouncing up and down as I handled her flabby hips. Moments later, I pinned her up against a graffiti-scratched tiled wall, fucking her doggy, her hefty tits hanging like fruit baskets. Finally, we returned to missionary, with me finally orgasming, painting her grey-speckled bush with generous white spurts that she later clawed at, rubbing into herself playfully, licking each available morsel from her fingers.
When we finished, she poured me a stale, yet cold pint, and we chatted, smoking and laughing about the game on the television earlier; about how Spurs didn’t have a chance in hell of winning the league at their rate, and how Celtics’ new defender looked and moved like a Salsa dancer. When three am came around, five more pints later, and a handful of drunken kisses stickier, Charley locked up. Offering to walk her home, I left my lifeless car, heavy frost penetrating the air, icing the windscreens of the sleeping machines in their neat, orderly rows.
