Sunset Highways – Encounter I

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SUNSET HIGHWAYS   Encounter I If this works for you, please leave a comment as I just damn well love reading them! I walked towards the little prefabricated, single storey dwelling encircled by bay trees at the far end of the street where, for the last two months, I had lived. In the heat and humidity of mid-morning there were few sounds, bar the gentle whisper of the corn fields beyond the houses. I made my way quickly and quietly up the short, scruffy driveway pocked with weeds and edged with scorched grass. Marie’s front door lay open, as did the bedroom windows. Her budget did not stretch to air conditioning. “Ca-va?” she said, inclining her head towards me as I walked, stiffly into the sparsely furnished, stifling hot living room, unsure of the current value of my stock. “Fine thanks,” I replied taking the long glass of cloudy, aniseed-smelling liquid that was proffered. I was already five minutes late for Silvia. She would be sitting in a bar on the village square, probably dressed classily in a floaty, summer slip, sipping wine and smoking cigarettes. Almost certainly a smattering of the local wide-boys with their camp mopeds and expressions of youthful optimism would already be circling like vultures, shouting provocative comments in her direction, trying to impress her by popping wheelies on their pathetic steeds, dreaming of the moment when they would find themselves nuzzling into her breasts, tugging at the material of her panties, slipping their fingers in between her lithe, tanned thighs. But yet, here I was perched on a tired, sun-bleached leather sofa in Marie’s dusty living room. Realistically, the woman sitting before me was probably touching forty; maybe just a little less. Her hair was well cared for, dyed honey blonde with dark roots showing. She was a little overweight, her creamy pale skin resisted all attempts by the sun to tan her and though she was attractive, maybe even beautiful from some angles, she wore too much makeup and her pale green eyes spoke of many places, many people, many relationships. We observed one another, drinking, saying little, as I tried to hide my desire to simply leer at the expanse of black nylon stretched to breaking point over her legs. Not to mention the band of bare flesh visible beneath the hem of her cheap black miniskirt, which she had allowed to ride up to hip level. Between her ample thighs, under the little skirt she knowingly offered me periodic glimpses of shiny, blue material – a pair of cheap, trashy knickers. In general, her garments had clearly been chosen to provoke me, irrespective of the climate, she wore heels and a shimmery, Escort bodrum wet-look strapless top, the colour of red wine, pulled skin tight over her large, heavy-looking tits. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” she lied in her alluring, indeterminately European accent. “I felt like talking to you,” I retorted honestly. I liked listening to her talk, almost as much as I had enjoyed the brief charade of resisting her advances. She was mysterious, unknowable, foreign; yet she spoke English, fluently, eloquently even. Her lurid recollections bewitched me, as they were, viewed through a lens of hard knocks, of exploitation and sex as a tool of the rich and powerful. “Am I keeping you from your girl?” she smiled putting out a cigarette and taking a sip of what I guessed was Pernod, served strong but very long. A jug of iced water sat on the table, two thirds empty. “A little,” I conceded. “You know, I could be your Mistress,” she said taking pains to emphasise non-verbally what that might entail, “or am I too old?” “You’re definitely not too old” I lied, “but do you have any experience of being the woman on the side?” She laughed at that, “aren’t you that Scotsman from down the road who likes me to talk about how many men I’ve been with, then gets so excited that he fucks me on my living room floor?” “I suppose so,” I admitted, “so, you were telling me about being a Mistress.” “I was?” She gave me something approaching a matronly look as I drew closer, my hand eagerly, impatiently reaching for her right breast. I squeezed it possessively, trying to see the profile of her nipple though the thin, clingy material. My crotch was about face height with her and she appeared to survey the hard, uncomfortable protrusion in my jeans with some satisfaction. “I suppose I was” she said in a faraway voice, “it was right at the end of the eighties. I was, shall we say, being kept in an apartment, close to Bordeaux. I was involved with an American heir. He was rich, arrogant, crazy. But I would do anything for him… and did. I was one of a handful of whores he kept stowed around places he frequented and I was keen to retain my place. I liked the lifestyle, you see – freedom within chains, money, parties, being driven in fancy cars, sex with no morals and few boundaries.” While she spoke I knelt before her, running my hands over her smooth nylon-clad legs. As my hands caressed her, my thoughts turned to Silvia. I pictured her body, her firm little tits, fresh, dew-like kisses and fragrant cunt. But it all melted away as I listened to Marie’s smoky voice and watched rapt as Escort Kuşadası she languidly parted her thighs, cocked a leg against the back of the sofa and with a single finger drew the gusset of her knickers to one side, displaying herself to me. “What did you do with him?” I asked, my fingers stroking at the neat triangle of faun-coloured hair between her legs, drinking in the smell of her perfume, her skin, her vagina. “We did lots of things, but what he really liked more than anything was to piss on me.” I listened, beginning to lap slowly at her moist, opening; first dragging my tongue from bottom to top before pushing my tongue between her lips, penetrating her. “Like, how?” I quizzed, between savouring tastes. “Use your imagination.” As I lapped at her, I pictured her on her knees, urine streaming down her tits, raining down onto some deep, opulent carpet, I imagined the kept woman, goading her lover on, encouraging him to fill her open mouth with his piss, and willingly swallowing it down. “Did you drink it right from his cock?” “Sometimes,” she said. I felt her fingers slip beneath her buttocks, allowing me more access, giving me an uninhibited view of her most intimate places. “But he was an old fashioned libertine,” she recalled somewhat wistfully, “eventually he wanted more than I could provide alone.” “He introduced you to other partners?” She continued; her voice soft, breathy and low as I pleasured her, “one spring morning he turned up at my door with a young woman. A Parisienne, beautiful, dark haired and wild eyed, willing to try anything in the pursuit of attention, lust and money.” “Did you have to fuck her?” I asked running my fingers over the swell of her belly, keeping her splayed wide and vulnerable as I introducing my index finger into her easy, experienced fuck hole, my tongue hard against the underside of her clit. She sighed, trying to maintain her focus. “He watched us together on the bed, suggested ways in which we might further his pleasure, demanding to see all his favourite acts meted out. He photographed us, drank in every detail. I had never been with a woman before, had no real desires in that department, but I threw myself into it, gave him everything he wanted to see.” “Such is the lot of a kept woman,” I theorised. As I spoke the words my mind wandered to Sylvia alone in the bar, anything but kept. I thought about her bent over a bar stool while the alpha male of the moped squadron fucked her from behind, spurred on by the jealous eyes of his subordinates. I imagined Sylvia’s dreamy, dusky eyes gazing round at the semi-circle bodrum escort of young men behind him, waiting to feel her cunt around their girth, waiting to pound her slender, toned haunches, to shoot their spunk up inside her. In the hushed, shabby warmth of Marie’s front room I blinked the uncomfortable pictures from my mind, rallied and gently introduced a second finger deep into her. “I remember the moment when I first licked her pussy,” she recounted softly, “I stuck my tongue as far as I could into her, desperate to get her off, desperate to please him, feeling both excitement and disgust at myself.” I pictured the scene, saw it burning bright in the golden haze of my third eye as the heady taste of her sex filled my mouth and the effects of the alcohol lapped at the shores of my brain. She sighed deeply as more of my fingers went to work, massaging her tunnel, working her over. “The girl squatted over me,” she said “spread herself without shame, made sure he had the perfect viewpoint of us both. Then, I watched his big, handsome cock come in above me and penetrate her anally. I had never seen the act from that perspective before; never seen another woman take a man’s cock that way. But he wanted me to see every detail; to be close enough to smell it. I watched as her tight little hole stretched to accept him, haltingly took him in, then slowly spat him back out again; so vulgar, but such a sight.” “How did her asshole look?” I pushed her for the graphic, lurid details I craved as my rock hard cock, ground painfully against the edge of the sofa. “I looked inside her.” “And then?” “He told me to suck his cock to make it nice and slippery for her. I did it. I could taste her ass mixed with him. Then, I watched as he started to fuck her again. He took his time, using her body to gratify himself, a slave to no person but himself. When he finally withdrew from her, I felt something splash me. At first I thought it was his cum or maybe even that she had ejaculated on me. It didn’t matter which. I opened my mouth, keen to degrade myself further for his enjoyment.” “She pissed on you?” “So it transpired,” she smiled, revelling in my reactions to her exploits as I gazed admiringly at her, legs spread, proudly displaying herself for my attentions. I rose to my feet, began to unzip my jeans, relieved to be unfolding my cock from its hot, uncomfortable bonds, “I just need to get this out,” I said massaging myself out to full length as she watched. She looked over my dick approvingly. “So, what did it taste like?” I pried further. “Her piss?” I nodded, standing over her, looking down and admiring her form; the way her ample, pliant tits wallowed to either side of her chest, the soft swell of her belly, her shapely legs clad in those black hold-ups. “Salty, bitter… intense.” “You enjoyed the deed?” As we spoke I began to imagine myself in the middle of the scenario she described.