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The knocking at the door persisted and eventually penetrated the layers of sleep. The rain had stopped and whoever was out there wasn’t going away. A number of possibilities came to mind, none of them good. It had to be connected to the girl. Her father; her mother; a boyfriend …? I’ve always been a glass half empty kind of bloke, a pessimist.
My accommodation was a static caravan, the place I’d come to bash out the fourth in a series of novels, and escape out of a back door was impossible, simply because there was no back door. I didn’t fancy the ignominious prospect of being seen by a neighbour, no matter how transitory their stay at the holiday camp might be, so shuffling my middle-aged arse out of a window was a non-starter as well.
No, whoever it was wasn’t leaving, not judging by the insistent knocking that had reached a level which began to vibrate the shell of the van. Pulling on yesterday’s jeans and shrugging into the shirt I checked the clock as I half-stumbled to the door. It was later than I’d thought; the night had worn me out. I usually begin the day with a kick start of caffeine and its close relative nicotine but was to be disappointed this mid-morning.
I opened the door expecting the worst, and it was far worse than I’d imagined …
She’d appeared suddenly. One moment, when I looked up from the Word document on the laptop screen and searched futilely for inspiration from the beaten pewter immensity of the North Sea, there had been nobody in sight. Next I looked, after inserting a comma and then immediately deleting, there she was.
“Hot in’t it?” she said, cheeky, precocious and stunning. “Got a cig?” she asked without waiting for any response to her statement. The girl rested her elbows on the railing that formed a three-sided square around an upraised platform which served as a patio at the seaward end of the caravan.
My body reacted immediately. It was instinctive. Desire swelled my cock with a visceral surge of lust that clamped me by the balls and actually caused a flare of griping in my guts. Light grey eyes above a straight nose and coral-pink lip gloss twinkled impishly at me. Albeit beautifully packaged in jeans and a pink bikini top, with shoulder length blue-black hair cut in a precise, level fringe, I recognised trouble when I saw it.
With the wisdom of hindsight I know what I should have done, the problem was she was too succulent to ignore; trouble I could handle … I thought.
Leeds or Wakefield I put her accent to be, West Yorkshire anyway. Not that I gave a shit about where she came from, she was here now, right in front of me …
Using her elbows the girl pushed up off the fence. Through the slats, spaced evenly like a toddler’s playpen, I could see the skin of her tummy, flat, flawless and impossibly smooth, with the glint of the obligatory jewel in her navel.
“Got a cig?” she repeated, moving along the railing to the little gate in the centre. Without waiting for an invitation the girl confidently pushed open the gate and stepped onto the decking planks.
Those jeans were a work of art, faded to wafer thinness and moulded to the cock-stiffening body beneath; slung so low in front that I knew, with absolute certainty, that her pudenda would be shaved bald as an egg.
She stood there, hip cocked, head tilted, and stared a challenge, smirking when she caught me perving at a place a good four inches below her belly-button.
“Well?” she demanded truculently, eyebrows arching upwards. I indicated the packet on the table in front of me. “Ta,” she said. I held my lighter out for her and she took a step closer, touching the back of my hand with hers as she lit up. “What you doing?” she asked directly.
“Writing,” I replied and wiped my forehead with a flannel I kept to hand for that sole purpose.
She moved closer to me, standing at my side as I sat there and concentrated on not licking the tanned and sweat-slippery skin between her jelly-mould tits. She leaned forwards, squinting at the lines on the screen. I leaned back in the canvas camping chair, precariously balanced on the rearward frame, and simply boggled at the sight of her perfect denim rump.
“What you writing about?” she asked, standing upright. I told her. “Fookin’ ‘ell … Really? You any good? Like famous or owt?” I admitted to some minor renown, having been recognised occasionally from dust jackets on the three precious Detective Inspector Ralph Regan novels.
“Not been on Jonathon Ross or Graham Norton,” I offered and gave what I hoped was a self-deprecating grin.
“Do you put anything mucky in it? Any dirty sex?” Her eyes gleamed and she drew on her cigarette. “Wow, a proper writer,” she went on without waiting for an answer. Her hand went to my shoulder as she leaned again, even closer than earlier, to the laptop and tried to read.
As the girl peered at the screen a group of a half dozen or so lads walked past. Instantly identifiable by their Geordie patois, a dialect of North bursa escort East England that was almost incomprehensible to me; weekenders on the lash and on the pull, sniffing for hen parties or jaded divorcees, out for a laugh. I recognised the stereotype — tribal, loud and fearless. Either bare-chested, lurid tattoos resplendent, showy peacocks strutting for a mate, or wearing the black and white vertical stripes of ‘the Toon’ — Newcastle United F.C. I imagined their easy banter as they recklessly drove white transit vans or hefted scaffold poles during the workaday week.
“Gerraloadahur,” I heard one young man say; which I interpreted as: ‘get a load of her.’ “Fuckin’ fit or what!” I had to agree with the coarse sentiments. The girl was sublime.
“Could you put me in it?” The question brought me back from my study of her posterior. “The book, could you put me in as a character?”
For her? Of course I could.
We exchanged names and a potted history. A quick calculation told me that I’d been thirty when she was born. Fifty-three now, but I’d gone through two divorces and had been working for the paper when she’d first arrived. Her father owned several of the caravans on the site, they were down for the August bank-holiday weekend, making the most of the summer and checking that holiday residents hadn’t totally wrecked his investment.
“Make her really sexy,” the girl continued, talking about her fictional character. “Really sexy and hot … And make sure she gets some cock. Maybe two at the same time … Or have her take it up her arse …”
I admit I was shocked by such a profane outburst from such a divine mouth. But even the surprise didn’t stop the image I had in my head of this beauty in such a scene. There she was, in my head, legs in black stockings, perhaps a pair of thigh high boots — shiny black leather or PVC of course — suspender belt and all the trimmings …
A picture of her kneeling on a sumptuous bed, derriere aloft while she reached back to part her buttocks and reveal the muddy stain of her sphincter was etched in my brain. Her pink crevice would gape with heavy-lipped insouciance, frothing and dribbling with desire as she looked back at me, hair in a severe pony tail, while depraved and sordid commands slipped from her mouth.
That was the fantasy, and it could only be fantasy, the girl was Premier League, while I was in the pub leagues, on a Sunday, and the B-team at that …
Lost for any appropriate response, flabbergasted by the girl’s candid demeanour and apparent lack of modesty, all I managed was a creaky, “You’re a very provocative young lady.”
“Provocative,” she repeated, moving the word around her mouth, testing it. It seemed she liked the taste for she nodded, grinned approval and said: “I’ve never been called that before. I think it suits me; might have a tee-shirt printed up; if I ever become famous I could have a perfume named after it.”
She left me then. After dropping those images in my mind she grinned again, waggled her fingers, and bade me a cheery, “Tata.”
The next time I saw her she was wearing a denim skirt, a short, faded example that flattered her long legs, to whose length she’d added by about six inches by her choice of shoes. Writing had been impossible that afternoon. Every time I started a paragraph all I could think of was the girl’s suggestions for a carnal-based plot. In my head she assumed the role of femme fatale with a penchant for Greek style. Concentration became impossible and I fell back on a favoured trick of writers since the obsession began — I went for a drink.
The route I took paralleled the precipitous cliff edge with a view of the vast and primal sea to my right, while martial ranks of caravans paraded in open order to the left. Hopeful gulls wheeled and fought and squalled while the ever-present and sibilant sigh of the waves sounded two hundred feet down below. A couple of hundred yards beyond the camp edge was a purpose built commercial centre, all the immediate amenities were there; a small supermarket with bread, milk, canned goods, all of the usual available at an exorbitant, inflated fee. There was a fast-food chipper, a pub, and even the ubiquitous Starbucks, all the essentials for modern living.
I headed for the pub, one of those faux olde world places — plastic and full of false beams, burgers, chips, pizza and ersatz bonhomie. Patrons gathered around picnic tables in a chaotic mix of the geriatric, the middle-aged, and harassed younger couples on the cusp of domestic violence while their feral ran riot. Inside the pub it was relatively peaceful; there was football on the big screen, a few leathered die-hards perched on the stools at the bar, while behind the demarcation line of the counter a blowsy and bored-faced slattern with dyed blonde hair ignored me with impressive devotion to her craft.
Eventually, after an eye roll and a gargantuan sigh the barmaid donked a sullen pint on the counter-top, demanded payment bursa escort bayan equal to the price of a small economy car, and switched her expression back from downright hostile to merely surly. I wasted an hour and drank three pints before leaving the unsmiling barmaid and her desiccated and bent-backed customers perched like vultures atop their stools.
After picking up a half-a-dozen cans from the shop I wove my way back along the cliff-edge. The girl, thoughts of her, filled my head as I walked into the coming gloaming. The frank disclosure of her inner thoughts, the suggestions of depravity for her character in my novel fired my imagination and I craved carnal knowledge of that lusciousness as I’d not experienced for a decade or more. Agitated and nervy as an addict I lurched homeward.
With the bag of beers resting on the steps at the door of the caravan, with the key hovering in front of the mortise, I turned to the sound of click-clack, click-clack and saw the girl striding over the cracked and uneven paving slabs. She came closer and smiled as she halted. I noticed the shoes immediately; her legs, lithe and finely sculpted seemed to stretch impossibly long in those heels. They, and the skirt, which fell to the barest limit of modesty, caused that same primitive clamp of lust in my guts. Her eyes glinted with devilment and her lips, slightly parted, shone moistly in the little of the daylight that remained.
“Hiya,” she said, flicking her hair, which she now wore in a severe pony tail. I had to force down the urge to go to her and kiss that mouth.
It took a couple of attempts for me to get the key in the lock. Eventually I fumbled the thing a quarter turn clockwise and yanked the door open. The girl tottered unevenly up the three steps and followed me straight into the kitchen-cum-living room of the caravan. She stood, knock-kneed on her stilts and surveyed the interior of my erstwhile hermitage; she being the first visitor to cross the threshold other than the daily maid service since I’d owned the place.
“Through there,” I said, pointing to the door to her right after I’d flicked on a table light and she’d asked for the toilet. When she was gone I opened the fridge and pushed the cans inside. Before I shut the door, bent forward and my hand hovering over the tins, I called: “Drink?”
The toilet flushed and she reappeared. Taking a can the girl popped the tab and sucked at the foam that bubbled out.
“Got a cig?” she asked as she all but fell onto the stiff cushion of the long bench seat below the window. Taking my eyes off her legs I grabbed a packet off the ledge by the van door. I don’t usually smoke inside the caravan, there’s the fire risk for one thing but I also didn’t want the lingering rank odour. In this case I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want anything to put this girl off. It was difficult enough to believe she was actually here, never mind allow myself to imagine what might be on the cards. If she wanted to smoke she could smoke; if she wanted to squat and piss over the soft furnishings I’d not have objected. The sight of her thighs as the skirt ruched up to an indecent level was compensation enough and more.
Those legs crossed and the shoe aloft jerked in time to an invisible bass drum while her eyes regarded me and my guts melted. She smoked and stared at me. The silence ballooned. Deafening. My heartbeat lubbed in my ears as I looked first at her face and then, when I could take the eyes no longer, down to her midriff.
The man’s shirt knotted under her tits exposed her smooth stomach and I could see the rack of her ribcage as she leaned back into the cushion with her arms spread cruciform along the top edge. The skirt rode higher which dragged my gaze down to the soft skin of her inner thigh as she uncrossed and then re-crossed her legs. I took in the lean muscles of those long thighs and examined at some length her well-sculpted and tapering shanks.
“I reckon I’ve got ugly feet,” she said, stretching one smooth shin and turning it this way and that as she inspected her feet with a critical expression creasing her face.
Looking at her toes I could see no reason for her to be displeased. She set the foot on the floor alongside the other and, leaning forward, sucked at the cigarette before blowing a grey-blue stream at the ceiling and swigging at the can. Then she stared at me again in silence, with her hands hanging between her knees, the cigarette clamped between her fingers. I sipped at my own beer, rendered mute by her sheer sexual allure.
“Do you fancy me?” she asked eventually.
Unable to speak, my throat was so dry, I nodded.
She smiled at me then. Looking back it could have been malicious, but all I saw was pearlescent teeth and an opportunity that would never present itself again. A memory of Amsterdam and a gorgeous beauty in a window came to mind. Under normal circumstances, any social setting, pub, wedding reception, office party, she would have been unattainable escort bursa for a man of my paunch, hairline and advancing years, but a quick muttering of a business arrangement and she was mine for thirty minutes. What sullied the transaction for me, despite the young woman being a superb example of feminine pulchritude from a purely chauvinistic point of view, was that the entire affair was totally devoid of feeling; there was an absolute freeze of intimacy. In a bizarre reversal of roles it was I who felt like a slab of meat as, with dull-eyed disinterest she stripped and revealed her body, gave my genitalia a cursory fondling — enough to get me semi-erect — before rolling a condom over my cock and, to my immense distaste, attempted to suck the rubber-coated stalk. In the end, after she’d piled on the chagrin by sliding lube over her opening in full view, I climbed aboard and fucked into her ironing board style, absolutely no kissing allowed, until I squirted my dissatisfaction into the johnny. I’d only just dressed and slammed the door behind me before she was back, perched on her stool, ready to snare the next aging lothario with a hundred euros in his wallet.
The girl crunched the fag end into the top of the beer tin and dropped the butt inside. She stood and casually untied the knot of the shirt front. The garment gaped and gave occasional glimpses of her breasts as she slowly moved. Dispelling any thought of unsatisfactory arrangements with Dutch prostitutes the girl came to me as I sat gawping on my own bench seat. She hitched the skirt up around her hips, knickerless beneath, straddled my lap, her knees denting the unforgiving foam under the scratchy fabric, and lowered her mouth to me.
She tasted of cigarettes and alcohol and I devoured her.
Her skin felt so soft and perfect under my fingers as I pushed my hands under the shirt and ran my hands up the narrow flanks of her back. She gasped into my mouth when I lifted her tight tits with my thumbs and cupped them both before sucking each precise, round and pebble-perfect nipple in turn.
“Oh … Dear … God,” I muttered when, after she rolled off my lap to sprawl awkwardly across the narrow cushion, she opened her legs and invited me to touch the sodden mush of her sex with my fingers.
“Touch me, touch me, touch me,” she implored, both breathless and strident at the same time. “Oh yeah, touch it. I want you to touch it. Finger me. Finger my cunt.”
I heard a strange noise and then, to my surprise, recognised the sound as a growl coming from my own throat, an atavistic voicing of desire. Sliding to kneel like a supplicant on the thin carpet, I unceremoniously gripped the girl’s waist and hefted her into a position where she rested on her lumbar balanced on the cushion edge. Her body was jack-knifed at an almost ninety degree angle with her chin on her chest and she stared down along the frontage of her body at me as I hooked my hands at the back of her knees and splayed her legs high and wide. Her sex pouted in a hot and scarlet maw of lust with the piss-flaps hanging like weighty rinds of flesh; I’d never seen anything so fucking wanton in my life before.
My cock stiffened to a tensile rod as I slurped and slobbered like a hound at that glutinous ooze. Her hands replaced mine as she held her legs apart and I tongued her slit from apex to rectum. Using my fingertips I parted her buttocks and dabbed at her sphincter as best I could in that awkwardness.
In response, the girl pushed me away with a curse. She stood up, tottering precariously on the heels, and rucked the skirt to a rope around her waist. The shirt was flung across the room and I gaped with an expression of slack-jawed amazement at her unblemished body, a superbly crafted example of divine art. The girl narrowly missed giving me the Trotsky treatment as she hauled a leg and a heel as murderous as a mafia hitman’s blade in a high parabola over my head and knelt on the bench seat while her palms rested on the wall. With her cheek pressed to the cushion and with her looking down at me under an outstretched arm she hefted her buttocks towards the ceiling.
It was the attitude I’d imagined her in only a few hours earlier. The surroundings were less salubrious, but the subject was far superior to the two dimensional image I’d envisioned.
“Lick my arse,” she muttered, her voice dark and treacly as befitted my mood.
My tongue squirmed deep into her rectum after I splayed the girl’s cheeks with my thumbs and got at the tight and puckered dot. She blurted a sob and babbled about what I was doing to her being lovely, dirty, and so fuckin’ mucky …
Primordial urges surged through me. I wanted to unzip my jeans and just plunge my cock into the scarlet core of her sex. Instead, somehow controlling myself, I used first a forefinger and then its neighbouring middle digit inside the heat of her opening. Wriggling and curling the fingers I hefted myself to a crouch as I traced a snail trail of licks and butterfly kisses along the track of the girl’s spine. At her neck, as she lowered her head in an attitude of prayer and exposed the vulnerable nape to me, I grazed my teeth over the skin before taking a vampiric, and what would prove to be evidential, taste.
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