For the record, I’d never wanted to view that dingy, mould-infested room on the 16th floor of Sheridan Towers, but as time was running out, and the workload at my new job was increasing, I needed to make the jump. Having seen the advert— a dodgy-looking slice of the wild west website that was now Craigslist, and realising that my choices were really limited, I reached out to the landlord (or in this case landlady) Roxanne, who confirmed a viewing for the 14th at 11 am.
True to my word, on the agreed date, I made my way across London, taking three buses and a tram (which I’d never even existed, let alone had taken), making my way towards my potentially new abode. A winter wash of drizzle began cascading down across the landscape, and as the city began to vanish, and suburbia began, I wiped the cracked screen of my phone, full of anticipation, walking onwards towards the colossus that was the Scarborough Estate. Out of nowhere, I began to feel danger in the air— smashed-in and burned-out cars began to fleck the narrow streets, hooded youths began to appear like spectres, cruising by on stolen BMXs and most intimidating of all was the collection of tower blocks that loomed high in the depressing sky, making up the entirety of the estate. For as far as the eye could see, concrete high-rises sprung from the ground, miniature rectangular estates woven between them like brutalist fences, keeping the alienness of outsiders out.
Walking up towards what my phone told me to be the entrance to Sheridan Towers, I tried to ignore the blue and white police tape that fenced off a descending concrete staircase, stained with something red, in scattered splotches, that given the rainfall, was indeed stubborn. I rang the button marked with the number 53 on the silver interface. No response. Again, I held down the button for a good ten seconds.
“Ello?” a high-pitched, female voice cackled.
“It’s Daryl. The guy from Craigslist”, I said, shouting over the rain as it rose to a shower. “I’m here about the room.” It could have been my imagination, but I could have sworn I heard her mutter for fucks sake under her breath.
Buzzing me into the building, I navigated the pink and teal tiles to the elevator, confining myself to the pissy steel box, as it took me high into the sky. By the time I got to the front door, I was certain that there was no fucking way I could live here. Just no way. I knocked on the weathered, maroon door. The sound of knackered slippers against cheap laminate floor got louder, as finally, Roxanne opened the door. She was young— no more than early twenties, with pale skin that made her look sick. Mousey brown hair sat on her oblong face, which was either greasy or wet: it was hard to tell at a first glance. Her cheeks were flecked with the aftermath of teenage acne which had refused to go away, ending at a stubbornly protruding chin, centered by the silver ball of a piercing: a remnant of younger rebellious years. She redressed the fluffy white bathrobe which covered her body, flashing her knickers at me in a split-second, before they disappeared once more.
“Yeah?” she asked with a sneer. “What the fuck you after?” Scowling, she lit the cigarette propped between her lips and exhaled.
“I’ve come about the room,” I said, feeling myself getting annoyed. I looked back towards the lift and a crowd of teenage boys, donning what looked like balaclavas, had gathered, watching me intently. “Daryl. It’s 11 am, ain’t it?” She looked at me blankly for the best of a minute until realising what was going on.
“Oh fuck— yeah that. Oh fuck– yeah. The room”. Taking a long drag, she reached behind herself, removing what I assumed was the wedgie of thin cotton from between her arse cheeks. “Well you’d better come in I guess”, she said, inviting me into the lightless flat. I shut the door and followed her. She laughed to herself.
“Why you laughin’?” I asked.
“I thought you were here to buy some gear. Some Speed… yeah. Or some Charlie. You look the sort.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, so I didn’t bother challenging it, let alone process the fact that my twenty-odd-year-old landlady was potentially a class-A dealer. In any case, the state of the flat— the outdated wallpaper, furniture and mound of dirty dishes in the sink as we passed the kitchen, were all enough to control my attention.
“I get that all the time,” I said to her, lying for ease of conversation, as she led me to the last room on the right.
Stepping in my potential bedroom, she walked over towards what was revealed to be a balcony, pulling apart a pair of velvet curtains, to let in the little amount of light that the silver sky would allow. Even with the meagre daylight, there was no doubt that it was a shit hole. Mould speckled the ceiling, like an incessant alien disease. The bed, although a double, looked as though it was one sleep away from collapsing. There were two bowls of what looked like uneaten cereal festering on the floor, by a long-dead houseplant, a collection of battered and scuffed shoes and three black bags. Fuck my life, I muttered to myself.
“Well. This is the room”, Roxanne began, avoiding eye contact, as she tugged at her wedgie again. “It’s four hundred per month, plus bills. No cigarette smoking allowed, but weed is fine. No cooking, no parties and no pets.”
“Wait— no cooking? You what?” I asked, dumbfounded. Turning to her, her dainty eyes were fixed on my face as if she’d seen it for the first time. She smiled a little— a stingy widening of her mouth and face, that merged into something wide and excitable. Licking her lips, she ashed her cigarette into a scallop shell on the black, dusty side table, and leant against the wall, seductively.
“Got a girlfriend?” Roxanne asked me, with genuine curiosity in her voice.
“Nah,” I said, surveying the godforsaken room with disgust. “Single. Two years now.”
“You gay?”
“You what?!”
“Lots of guys, are nowadays ya know? On the down low, like. It’s OK if you are you know? It’s just— single. For two years? It’s a long time.” I squinted at her, feeling my pulse rising in anger.
“Whatever,” I replied, sarcastically. Her face shrunk a bit. I heard my watch beep twice, signifying the time— the perfect cue to make tracks, and never look back.
“Well, thanks for the tour… Roxy. It’s lovely,” I said, pretending to check my watch. “Tell you what, I’ll let you know later in the week if that’s OK.”
“It’s Roxanne, babe.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry”.
If I’m honest, I’m not sure what repulsed me more— the room or its owner. I mean, I knew that I was desperate, and on the brink of couch surfing for at least two months if I didn’t take it, but whoever said beggars couldn’t be choosers had never seen this flat. I needed a pint and a packet of pork scratchings so let the day ebb away into a drunken nothingness, as it clearly needed to. Roxanne’s face lowered.
“So aren’t you gonna fuck me?” she asked, her voice more high-pitched, and whispered than ever. I blinked twice.
“You what?” I asked, not believing what I’d heard. I looked her up and down. It was hard to know what her body type was, with all of the bulk of her fluffy dressing gown, but if her face was anything to go by, her body would be a treat. Plus, with all her butt-picking, there was a high chance that she wore sexy underwear, which was always a bonus.
“I thought you came to fuck me,” she said, matter-of-factly as if asked to give her date of birth. She was deadly serious. “Like, all the men that come to view the flat, end up fucking me.” Something about that sentence made my cock spring to life. She gazed down at my crotch, eyes fixed like a raptor.
Without warning, Roxanne undid the belt of her dressing gown, letting the straps fall to the side. Between the exposed gown, I could make out a pair of perky, palm-sized breasts, sitting above a lean, yet slightly chubby stomach etched with pale stretch marks as a cluster of blurry inked stars that trailed down to her knickers. Leaning back against the wall, she opened her dressing gown, revealing her entire torso to me, wearing nothing but a lace black thong, clumped in the front, into a camel-toe. Pulling the thin gusset to the side, she slowly slid her index finger inside herself, releasing a long moan, maintaining eye contact all the while.
“My boyfriend— he’s alright, but he don’t last long. He never eats my pussy, let alone feeds her anything that keeps her happy.” I stood there, mesmerized as this stranger slid a finger deeper inside herself, shuddering with pleasure, with a sing-sing moan, her flesh pricked with goosebumps. “Besides he never treats me like the truly cock-hungry girl I am. I just can’t get enough.”
I took a step closer to her. In the musty, lukewarm air of the room, I could smell the faint perfume of her pussy— piss, sweaty flesh and something sour, lacing the tight air as she closed her eyes, and continued playing with herself.
“Oh so you’re cock-hungry, are you?” I asked her, playing with the bulge of my cock through my tracksuit. She nodded.
“My pussy is always so hungry for cocks. Don’t care about names— ages, race, size… as long as I get to be daddy’s tight little bareback cumdump. I just—”
Walking up towards her, I planted a long kiss on her lips as our tongues danced over one another’s before pulling away. Savoring my saliva, she licked her lips, closing her eyes, before devouring my face, as I reached down and grabbed her right arse cheek. Kissing her neck, I sunk my teeth inside her tattooed flesh, whispering as I violently grabbed her cheek to the side.
“You’d like daddy’s cock, inside you, wouldn’t you?” I whispered, as she moaned and breathed heavily in the tussle against the wall.
“I would, daddy. My tiny pussy needs to be constantly filled and fucked. Please, daddy— oh fuck. I need it. Be my daddy? Oh please?”
“You want me to fuck you, do you?” I asked, toying with her.
“Yes, daddy. I want you to fuck me. Please— I need my cream. Spunk me!”
Guiding her over to the dingy bed, I lifted the light frame of her body onto the duvet cover, arching her body with her on all fours, pulling her dressing gown away and casting it to the floor. Pulling apart the thin, stained fabric of her thong, I licked the soft, puckered skin of her arsehole, up and down, watching as she sunk a duo of fingers deeper inside her sticky wet fanny. I probed her arse with my tongue, before finally pulling out my cock. Every fibre of my being warned me of bareback fucking an individual who claimed to have had sex with as many men who viewed her room, but in the moment, I didn’t care at all. Holding my pulsing prick in my right hand, I trailed it over her soppy, leaking slit, enjoying seeing her twitch.
“You going to open up for daddy?” I asked rhetorically, teasing her sensitive flesh with mine. Instantly, she spread her legs wider, parting her labia with two fingers.
“Spunk me daddy”, she moaned. “I’m nothing more than your creampie queen. My— my poor pussy needs feeding. She needs your load. She needs your special cream. ” She said the sentence with so much genuine feeling that it sounded like she was on the brink of tears.
Pulling her thong to the side, I spat down on her pussy, and slid, with one smooth motion, inside of her warm hole. She was tight. Feeling the muscles of her vaginal wall clenching as I began thrusting more and more, I looked down in genuine awe as I saw the liquid trailing from inside her.
“Like that?” I asked her, handling each of her small, yet near-perfectly round buttocks with my hands in tight, menacing grips.
“Yes, daddy”, she moaned, hoarsely. “Spunk me. Spunk me, like I need it! Shoot a load inside my slutty cunt!”
Sliding my thumb into the narrow, spit-laced hole of her arse, I pushed slowly, causing her to moan uncontrollably, as I gradually sunk it down past the knuckle, resulting in giving her an orgasm that made her wail like a wounded bird. Then, without warning, a warm rising flowed from my balls and before I had the chance to delay it or to pull out, I released two days’ worth of sticky, fertile semen inside her sloppy pussy. I held her sweaty torso closely as I repeated, shuddering, rather embarrassingly, each time until my penis, now flaccid, slipped out of her.
***
Later that evening, in the pub, as I sat in a windowless Tavern on a high street that looked like something out of a war documentary, watching the footie on a large, black, sun-faded widescreen in the stale air of the narrow room, my phone vibrated. It was a text message. From Roxanne:
Hopefully that sticky pressie was the first of many more xo
I smiled to myself, before downing my pint, ordering one more, as I watched the unformed men on the screen, running around the emerald pitch, chasing one another in the shadow of glaring floodlights.
