Helen, who’d broken into a full sweat and streamed with aguish fever, climbed out of bed and drew her curtain. There was a fine dusting of snow on the window-ledge, thick enough to settle, warm enough to thaw. She blinked her eyes in the stark sunlight, staring across the street. The slut with the breast-length, flowing black hair and huge breasts was there, propped hard against a grey pebbledash wall dressed to kill in her fake fur bolero, wide-mesh fishnet tights, six-inch stilettoes, little else, smoking a fag.
Since the steepest rise in fuel, heating, food, drink, and lifestyle costs, flocks of women: bored housewives, single mother émigrés from occupied war zones, gathered on the council estate, street corners, ravishing ravens in soiled plumages pestering passing men and women for meaty morsels to feed their starving broods.
An elderly tenant soon complained to the council who promised to get round to cleaning up the streets, ridding the paths of vagrant sluts as soon as they’d dealt with the potholes. That’s what sluts were in the eyes of local political elites: little more than human potholes waiting for fools to fill them. Helen often sidled past the tall slut with endless, long legs on her way to the corner shop to buy her men’s magazines declining the slut’s lewd offer for her to get her leg over her.
Until today—today, she felt sorrier for her, ridiculously exposed to the chill like that, her bared knees and bare crotch sore, red, inflamed, chaffed by the cutting cold. They were two of a kind: sluts, filth, detritus, one and the same, androgynous lifeforms, faking it, struggling, to keep a grip on their warped, depraved personalities, distended characters. Helen: seeking a purpose in her life, the slut selling her ample body to pay the bills. She wondered if she’d like some of her hot tomato soup, toasted deli focaccia, thickly spread with fatty margarine, and cheap yeast extract, to warm her up. Slut’s breasts had chilled blue; her nipples were stiff: she looked as if she could do with it!
Forgetting, she wasn’t wearing her clean bra and panties, not having shaved, showered, or shone her teeth, Helen threw on her soft pink tracksuit and trainers, and raced outside to ask her in. Only when she locked the front door did she realize that she’d left her tablet lying on the bed, revealing dangerous liaisons: Livia’s, Daisy’s nude lipstick kisses adorning her crumpled sheet.
Seconds later, she was standing in the street, legs apart, hands on hips, consoling the colossal slut.
‘You must be cold, standing in the snow. Don’t you have a home to go to?’ she said, genuinely.
The slut shrugged her shoulders drawing off her bolero to reveal her heavy breasts, breasts that flopped and sagged with the sheer density of them, breasts riven, strewn, riddled with enticing clusters: varicose veins spreading, ominously, out of her puffy, dusky, delicately-teated nipples onto her pale chest. Helen’s jaw dropped at the slut’s natural beauty, her perfect, unspoiled, pallid face, her slash of pink lipstick, not even a hint of make-up, the most beautiful, wholesome slut she’d ever met. Her mouth watered at the prospect.
The slut closed her eyes, slanted her head to one side, slid her hand, her ivy-tattooed wrist, over her breast, her belly, her cute navel, far as her underbelly, gripped her wide-mesh fishnet tights, exaggerating her long, creased, fawn, lip-sealed, folds of cleft, and spoke, in her foreign accent.
‘I have no home. I fled my country and entered this country without my husband. He’s dead, killed fighting to save my country. I am homeless. I live from hand to mouth. I fuck to pay for food.’
Helen noticed the slut’s grazed ring fingers bore no wedding ring, just a dull grey nail varnish instead of the beige gloss on her other nails: homage to her dead soldier. She thought of Livia: luxuriating on her sun lounger, about to give birth to her first baby. Daisy: making fake love to her lonesome, broken, craving girls at midnight on their adult chat sites. How lucky were they? Compared to this filthy, vagrant, widowed, shattered, heartbroken, unwilling, immigrant, slut?
The slut asked Helen if she would like to get her leg over to help buy her something to eat and pay for a warm jumper, tracksuit bottoms, cheap gloves, and some socks from the charity shop. Helen said she might, on condition, the slut came to her warm flat and had some hot tomato soup and toasted focaccia first, followed by fresh, healthy fruit, oat yogurt, instant coffee, and chocolate.
Helen had plenty of food to share.
*****
Minutes later Helen was sitting at her kitchen table watching the slut sup soup and chew bread while she asked her probing intellectual questions.
‘How long have you worked as a prostitute?’
The slut spoke with her mouth full, drooling warm soup, half-masticated focaccia bits, on her chin. Some soup dribbled past her throat, over her pale chest, and her heaving breasts. Helen leaned forwards and wiped the smut’s mouth, neck, chest, and breasts with a wet wipe. The slut offered her no resistance. Keen to finish lunch and get the English girl to get her leg over, maybe even make love to her, the slut replied: ‘I’ve fucked men and women on the streets since the war.’
Helen was intrigued, ‘On average, how many clients do you have sex with in a typical day?’
The slut seemed confused, ‘Clients? Typical?’
‘Mmmn, how many men and women do you fuck every day?’
‘Oh forty, fifty,’ the slut said, brightly proud of her athletic prowess, her endless staying power.
Helen recalled Daisy’s giggly girl plea to her as they indulged in cybersex: I can’t help myself! The final question then, well, almost final, ‘Where do you prefer to have sex?’
The slut mopped her soup bowl clean with her bread, peeled a ripe banana, and thrust it in her mouth sucking between mouthfuls of black cherry yogurt, ‘Behind garden walls, in alleyways.’
‘Don’t you get scared?’
‘Why should I be scared? I lost my husband, my home, my family, and all of my belongings. I have nothing left in my life to be scared of,’ her voice paled, weaker, distraught, clearly upset, ‘No one left to love, no one left to live for.’
The slut rose and reached for Helen’s hand, ‘Thank you for being so kind to me. I should go.’
‘No, don’t. I want you to stay.’
Helen cleared the kitchen table, stripped off her tracksuit, bra, and lilac pants, and lured the sad young slut with her all-over-tanned body, her cute, petite breasts, disarmingly cherry flesh lips, and her gently swaying hips.
‘Please, I’ve no one to live for either, well, no one who really cares about me and loves me for who I really am. Will you love me? Please.’
The slut’s face lit with a genuinely loving, caring smile: she slipped off her bolero, pulled off her stilettoes, and peeled down her fishnet tights, revealing her sensational body in all of its splendour. Helen watched avidly as she climbed up on the kitchen table for her, full, naked, craving her sex, and pled to her, ‘Fuck me with your tongue, slut.’
‘How would you like me to fuck you?’
‘Lie on your back with your head hanging over the edge, open your mouth; stare at my pussy.’
The slut reclined and lay on the table, her head pushed, over the edge, ‘Like this you mean?’
‘Yes, like that.’
‘I can see your cunt,’ the slut remarked crudely, ‘You’re all wet.’
‘I’m all wet coz I want you to lick me. Close your eyes.’
‘Okay, so I’ve closed my eyes, now what?’
‘Arch your body upwards so I can knead those fat breasts of yours.’
‘Like this?’
‘Mmmn, like that. You look beautiful. Stick your tongue out for me far as you can, let me squat on your face. Oh, that feels lovely, stick your tongue inside my pussy, girl, fuck me with your tongue, lick me out, lick my creamy jus, eat me, oh, god, I’m coming, coming in your mouth!’
*****
Helen wrote about what happened to the slut, and to her, in her own, immortal, naughty way:
My Slut
Her eyes grew wide when she saw me smouldering on the beach. I bent my strong legs and peeled the soaking wet bikini off my sweaty body. My breasts and belly were dripping with sweat. I’d acquired a healthy tan on our holiday. She stashed away her sunglasses, stripped off her bra and panties and joined me on the beach mat. I smiled approvingly at her incredible physique: her colossal pale breasts, her tanned rounded tummy: finding her underbelly appetising. Her pink lips demanded closer inspection by my discerning tongue, as did her dusky, puffy, round, delicately-teated nipples.
A lust lump formed in my throat as I spread my slender legs wide apart for her and said, ‘Rub some oil into my pussy, would you?’
She placed the bottle of virgin oil near my crotch. The squeezy bottle was half-full. She’d need to apply its contents sparingly to make the fluid last until I came. Calmly, she squeezed a blob of oil onto her palm.
‘Lie on your front.’
I tied back my hair with a pink elastic band and rolled on my front, my chin resting comfortably on the backs of my hands. Excited, I gripped the edge of the mat! One of my knees slid off as I splayed my moist folds. Although her tender touch would caress the full depth of my love hole she lightly covered my fleshy buttocks with a soft towel to protect them from her probing fingers. She’d soon strip it off me when she fucked me with her middle finger.
‘Like this, you mean?’
She nodded. Delicately, she glided her hands over my groin, up, down the full slit of my cleft, kneading warm oil into my raw steak red flesh. Gently she rubbed my clit using deep strokes, pressing her puffy breasts against mine. I felt her fiery hot breath on my cheeks, her fleeting kisses on my ear, jaw, neck, and spine. Slowly, softly, her tongue licked my lower back. I quivered as she stripped away the towel and spread my buttocks. She massaged my soft inner flesh. Her fingers probed my sticky hole.
‘How does that feel?’
‘Mmmn. Feels good.’
I purred as she pulled her fingers out of my sopping-wet cleft. I rolled on my back. Once I’d settled, she lubricated me, pouring warm oil on my tanned breasts: ruddy brown, puffy, from the sea’s kiss.
‘Be gentle with them, they’re sensitive.’
I moaned. She massaged me, sensuously, using balm to lightly skim my breasts with the palms of her hands, pausing to tease out my stiff teats, circling both of my bronze nipples, sending blissful sensations tingling thru my body. Breathing heavily, taking deep gasps, I splayed my dripping wet love-hole for her, gripping my wet folds of flesh in my fingertips. Her jaw fell at the sight of me, displayed like this, totally uninhibited. My beauty intoxicated her. I licked my wet lips salaciously, eyes half-shut.
I held her tightly, enjoying her flesh rubbing against my soft belly, pressing her mouth open with my dewy lips. Our membranes adhered bound in an infinitesimal moment of intimacy. We paused to catch our breaths. I cried: tears of joy moistened my fiery cheeks. My smile illuminated my face. My soft lips brushed her ear.
I delved my hand inside her slit. She strained, rearing for me. Her pussy was all speckled with slick jus. I rubbed her clit hard, briskly, with my thumb, lay back, and arranged myself for her.
‘Fuck me, Nadiya!’ I pled.
She licked my tummy, tasting the sea salt in my navel. With my leg hiked over her shoulder, she kissed my inner thigh, massaging my soft outer lips. By now, I was all dreamy, dripping wet, smothered in oil. My hairy tuft was dusted with sand. She brushed it off me. She knelt between my legs, gazing lovingly into my shiny eyes. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world.
My face flushed. My breasts swelled. My heart raced. I gritted my teeth, flexed my hips, and arched my body upwards.
‘What’re you waiting for?’ I slurred, ‘Want you.’
She grasped my fleshy buttocks with her hands, sank her head between my thighs and fucked my dripping wet love-hole with her lambent tongue, teasing my clit, my glistening bead, stiff with her deft tip, biting, sucking, my veinous, stretched, labial, folds with her teeth, pressing the full thrust of her langue deep inside my lubricious cleft, till I screamed out my love for her, till I pushed all of her tongue out of me, till I exploded deep inside and came, all over her face!
Nadiya’s my dream come true, my best dream ever. I just want us to go on, and on, and on!
Nadiya, in Ukraine, means hope.
