Pussy-Licer: a Hyper-Tramp

A homeless hobo is snatched off the street...

but is everything the way it seems?

It gets crazy-weird from this point on.

The concrete is hard and cold. A relentless numbing chill that oozes up sucking the warmth from my shapeless huddle of Oxfam overcoats and tented last week's 'Observer' wrap-arounds. Sleep comes in bursts of icy dream and neon nightmare. And this must be a hang-over from one or the other.

The big Mercedes is throbbing there, rear passenger door yawning open so its light cuts down at me. At first I'm blurry, rubbing sleep and confusion from my eyes, then I lurch up awkwardly, my back braced against the wall, a sour taste in my mouth.

'Hey, c'mere.' An inviting voice from the car interior.

'Who? Me? Whaddya want with me? Leave me alone. I got nothing you want.' I can't see beyond the light, and don't trust my legs to hold me. But I move a few uncertain paces from my lair beneath the fly-over arch across the sidewalk towards the car. Resting up against its cool solidity.

The guy in the back says 'get in. It's your birthday.' Beyond him there's a sin-chaser blonde in black stockings, wearing a sassy smile, and not much else. I swallow hard. The grin comes more natural now. My mind-fuzziness clearing by degrees.

'What is this?'

'This, my friend, is philanthropy. We are having a party, my associate and I. We have food to make you drool, we have wine that cost a month's salary, and we have girls. But you know, I'm a man of social conscience. I'm not lacking in altruism. I think a little redistribution of the good things in life is no bad thing. So I'd very much like you to join us.'

'Hey look, I'm no Hobo, you can't condescend to me. I'm...'

'Yes. I know all that. You're just temporarily down on your luck. Could happen to anyone. Please don't feel insulted. Just do me a favour, and be our guest. Please.'

I shrug. What else can a poor boy do? I feel guilty. But not THAT guilty. He steps out of the car so I can get in behind the Driver, next to the girl undressed to kill. Centrefolds be damned. She's sex on tap. My host gets back in beside me, shunting me up contact-close to the girl. The door slams shut. As the light extinguishes I get the feeling I know the man beside me, as the car moves off and hisses into the swirl of traffic.

She reaches out with some kind of leather hood, I can smell her body-scent as she moves, but I grab her hand to stop whatever it is she intends doing. 'Sorry, my friend' says the man soothingly. 'I'm sure you understand. This is just a little precaution I must insist on.' She smiles beguilingly. 'It's worth the wait.'

My resistance melts. I allow her to strap the bizarre bondage hood over my head, a zip across the mouth-slit. There are shackles attached. Again I hesitate in a sudden panic as she manipulates me. These weirdo's could be Terrorists. Psychos. Serial Killers. But no – I recognise him from TV. I'm sure of that now. A Game Show host? I relax and let her fix my wrists to the attachments on the hood. What have I to fear, but fear itself?

All I'm aware of now is the low purr of the Mercedes, the hiss of the city beyond. It's warm inside. Suffocating warm. I try to chart the direction we take, the driver hangs a sharp left, straightens up, how far now? Then there's a sudden distraction from the area of my fly, which destroys any attempt to think of anything else. Intimate fingers are unzipping me, crawling down the length of my crotch. Urgent insistent fingers that insinuate within the open zip.

I stiffen in both senses, my breath trapped in my throat so it can't escape. I come quivering up out of my pants, nakedly semi-erect. I can't see, but I guess they can. I'm beyond caring. Cool sensitive fingers ease a spidery trail up and down my cock's growing length, tracing my nervous excitement from sensitive tip to fat testicles.

Then – incredibly, there are lips sliding over its blunt fat arrowhead, impossibly moist, more succulent than I could dream possible. A tongue flickering as delicate as butterfly's wings up and down the shaft. The faint snag of teeth working their way down into my groin. And I groan as the sucking begins in a rage of erotic power.

I close my eyes in ecstasy, although it's hardly necessary as I can't see anything anyway, the hood makes sure of that. Writhing my head this way and that as the unseen mouth takes every inch of me, licking and sliding up and down the tender skin. I think I'm going to explode.

The car accelerates, the sucking mouth jostles up and down as it speed-corners. Then the scrunch of tyres on gravel as things begin to spin out of control. A tiny infinitely rapid tingling of hot fluid seeps up my rigidity. Simultaneously the sheer oral pressure grips tighter, willing it on. I yell out loud as orgasm hits, although the sound is muffled inside the hood, and the choking-gurgle as I ejaculate into a moist softness that seems a million miles away. There's laughter and giggling too, but I'm so high on pleasure I hardly notice.

As sensations wetly subside, the car glides to a halt and I'm shuffled awkwardly back out into the cool night, limp cock dripping, guided across a width of driveway, uneasily afraid I'll trip on something hard, or step into something soft. Somewhere, a fountain whispers, and I can hear the sound of traffic muted by distance. I'm steered by a firm hand through doors and onto deep-pile carpet beyond.

--- 0 ---

Once within, the bondage hood is unclasped and lifted free for use elsewhere. I'm in what is probably an up-market Hotel suite, or possibly a high-rent apartment. There are two men – the Game Show celeb, and a guy who must be the Mercedes driver. And two nude girls, a classy brunette sex-machine with long braided hair down to her prominent darkly-pigmented nipples. And the tall auburn-blonde from the Merc backseat, the paleness of her pubic hair making her seem even more than naked.

Possibly they are wives of my hosts, but probably not. More likely they're the kind of wealth-groupies that the media circus attracts. They might even be expensive whores. Dialogue is at a minimum after all, there's little time or inclination for small-talk.

I become the object of curiosity, the grizzled rough-sleeper, the street derelict brought in to add a frisson of daring strangeness – and who would believe the ramblings of such a low-life if I decide to play fuck 'n' tell with the tabloids afterwards? So I act the part expected of me. Drooling and lurching like a starving man, eating what there is to eat, drinking what's there to be drunk, and naturally loathe to remain too long encumbered by clothing.

Afterwards, it's difficult to exactly piece together the sequence of genital combinations, who was had by whom and the exact orifices penetrated, licked, or stimulated by which sets of lips, fingers, nipples, cocks and tongues. Memories come in vivid spurts like a fast-forward Porn-sequence. The blonde sprawls nude on her back. The hood is over her head with wrists affixed, but the mouth-slit is unzipped to accommodate the Driver's fat penis as he squats over her, rocking roughly back and forward into her masked face, his cock going fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck deep into her gurgling throat.

At the same time the brunette crouches down between her splayed legs, tongue stabbing and jabbing, licking and lapping into the rich pussy-wetness, as I take the crouching brunette from behind, sliding in beneath her sensuously undulating buttocks, my smooth entry nudging her forcefully deeper into the blonde girl's open quim. Both of them moaning appreciatively.

The lights are on dimmer-setting but sweat glimmers on a writhing of bodies and a weave of limbs. The moist sound of skin slithering together, the air heavy with the arousal-funk of cunt-juice. While Mr TV Game Show Host leers, watching it all, jacking himself slow and languorously as he does so. His penis is pitifully small, but as if to compensate, it's he who co-ordinates the sex-action. Like a Conductor controlling an Orchestra, albeit with an inadequately-sized baton!

At Mr TV Celeb's instruction, we rearrange. The dark girl comes up unsteadily, extricating strands of wiry blonde pubic hair from her teeth. I lie on my back, cock quivering up like a radio aerial, and the hooded blonde is manipulated over me into a breathtaking sixty-nine, straddling me, her ass facing back. She lowers her hips until her wet cunt is grinding into my face, its wispy pubence tickling my nose. Then I feel her lips closing over the swollen bulb of my cock, causing my gut to spasm involuntarily.

It's exquisite. All I can see is her invitingly gaping moist-gleaming cunt. What else can I do but raise my head and apply my tongue to that lubricating cleft, seeking out the sweet bud of her clitoris? And all the while she's devouring more of me into her mouth, easing down its length with obscene gluttony. She knows how to suck cock, differently and more toe-curlingly intimate than the blow-job mouth in the Mercedes. The sensual tremors build so powerfully I have difficulty concentrating on my reciprocal oral attentions, but I close my eyes hard and lap furiously between the open pussy-lips. Already highly aroused, she soon begins to climax, hips and buttocks quivering above me, convulsing around my tongue.

Momentarily she stops sucking, but keeps my cock in her mouth all the while. Beyond us, the suite is saturated with the sounds and sweet smells of sex. Somewhere to my left the brunette is furiously fucking with the Driver, his hard cock pistoning into her. Mr TV is crouching in close enough for her to reach out, trap his miniscule member in her hand, her long nail-varnished fingers wrapping in around it, and wanking him.

Then I can't think straight anymore, because it all begins again, crazy-weird and more powerful than narcotic dreams...

Three hours later I'm dumped back on the street again, where the concrete is hard and cold, back beside my lair beneath the fly-over arch. Three hours of the most incredible indulgence and debauchery dredged from my most erotic fantasy. The Mercedes tail-lights pulling away into swarms of traffic. I glance down at my watch. It's late. I'm rancid with dried sweat and... other moistures. I need a shower. To hell with this.

I pull my coat collar up against the night, and head back towards my flat. I'm a journalist. But my Orwell-esque under-cover exposé of the Cardboard City 'living-rough-on-the-street' assignment is already shot to hell. And anyway, I've now got a better story than the New Homeless Underclass for the Sunday editions.

Mr TV Celeb, I know your secret. If it wasn't the blonde who gave me head in the back-seat of the Merc, and after sampling her exquisite technique, I'm pretty damn sure it wasn't, then it must have been YOU!

So, Mr Game Show Micro-Dick, just wait until you see the weekend papers...