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Pussy-Licker: Confessions Of A Soft-Porn Scribe

In the small-town Yorkshire literary world, success and failure can be linked in complicated ways… with unpredictable outcomes. As Wade Welton discovers.

Sex speaks in tongues, and it speaks every language ever devised.

He’s walking towards the company Forms Library, head crammed to the seams with erotica, like a misshapen shopping-bag over-filled with lumpy groceries. What character-name to choose this time? Dick Galore, or perhaps Dick Cox? He tries out story ideas as he walks. Like this one… Dick stands patiently in the Supermarket Check-Out queue. He reaches the voluptuously-contoured cashier who zaps his purchases one by one across the barcode sensor – Muesli, Pasta Spirals, De-Caff, Bean Sprouts… ‘Wait’ he says, ‘I’ve got one more item.’ He zips down his fly and slides the biggest baldy-feller in town onto the sensor (and we’re not talking ‘Kojak’ here). She wrinkles her delightful nose, and regards it suspiciously. ‘What is it, fruit or vegetable…?’ she lisps.

‘You sly old dog’ says Quinley Osgood, interrupting the fantasy.

‘Uh – I’m just going to the Forms Library’ mumbles Wade in an embarrassed confusion of receding weirdness. As though the Supervisor is reading his (dirty) thoughts even as he thinks them.

Osgood leers in an unpleasantly intimate way, and winks grotesquely. ‘Saw your latest story.’ He leans over and hisses wetly in Wade’s ear. ‘V-e-r-y good. Excellent stuff. Anyone with a healthy hormone level would react in the same way. I’m impressed, Mr Welton. I’d very much like to see more of your… er… work.’ He’s heavy-breathing now, like an over-excited 0898 caller, his flabby gut undulating like rough sea beneath his pale blue shirt.

‘It’s very kind of you to say so’ he mutters, his eyes doing their best to avoid contact. Thinking, for ten years I’ve been writing secretly, in hidden corners of the factory at lunch-break, or late into the night at home. Ten years of poems, sensitive literary short stories and essays for artfully serious small-circulation little magazines. And no-one gave a damn. Four tales in ‘Erotic Stories’, and suddenly, everyone wants to know.

‘I’d be as happy as Michelle Pfeiffer’s knickers if I could write stuff like that’ glows Osgood. ‘I’m a fan. Let me read more, alright? Good man.’

Wade Welton slouches on down the corridor. Osgood watches him go. Wade must be in his late-thirties, poorly maintained too. Painfully inoffensive. Below average stature. He wears khaki overalls, ringed with printer’s ink and grease from the shop-floor where the printing machines whirr louder than a Heavy Metal drum solo. Osgood shakes his head, s-h-e-e-e-i-t, who’d have guessed it? Old Wade Welton, last bachelor of this parish, Mr Dullsville himself. You never can tell!

The Forms Library is unnaturally quiet after the noise of the factory. There are tiers of insulating shelves bulging with numbered A4 buff envelopes, each one containing job details and information, colour samples and art-work from customers. As he enters, Wade sees Scab, the cockatiel. Rachel is feeding the bird bite-sized portions of her salmon sandwich which it seizes in one claw and then attacks with its vicious beak. Both librarian and bird usually ignore him during his infrequent visits here. A flighty pair. Rachel all mouth and no-‘O’ Levels. But this time she watches him. What could he call her in a story? Miss B Haven, Dolores Del Lay, or Randy Raquel? She has soft-porn eyes, but hard-core lips. He smiles a little agitatedly and moves in between the shelves, rippling along the file of numbers. He glances back. There’s a magazine on the table, between her coffee-ringed cup and the cockatiel cage. His heart sinks as he recognises the issue of ‘Erotic Stories’. His name is there, on the contents page.

‘Wade, you have hidden depths.’ Rachel is sliding in beside him, smiling in a way that a Porn writer would probably describe as ‘coquettish’. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you. But they always say the quiet ones are the ones to watch.’

He swallows nervously. ‘I’m looking for the West-Wind job-file. Query concerning the company logo.’

‘I’ve often wondered’ her long slender fingers are walking cool and insistently across his thigh. ‘The stories ankara escort you write, are they based on… real-life experience?’ His tongue is suddenly a reef-knot of tension. Scab is preening contentedly. Her fingers have disengaged his overalls and are now making contact with his zip, sliding it inexorably downwards. ‘You must be a very… passionate man’ she whispers, forcing him backwards up against the shelves, pouting her lips like a goldfish gulping at lungfuls of air. Her hand is on his cock. He inhales with a desperate gurgling sound. But despite himself he’s responding to her titillation, warming and swelling in her fist. Blood surging from head to penis so fast he sees stars. ‘It would be great to be your inspiration for a story. Will you write about me, Wade, will you, will you?’

She’s descending with each syllable, talking to his chest, his stomach, and down until her face is as close as a fly-button to his crotch. He feels her warm breath stirring him. She kisses the big purple-red glans, then runs her tongue along its shaft. He watches in stunned disbelief as she mouths him. Can feel the damp touch of her lips as she moves in to engulf him, blowing hot and cold, taking over half of his length between her luridly lipsticked lips. Her grip soft and wet around the cock-head. Her tongue flicking and probing into the slit at its tip. He groans deep within himself, and can’t help lurching his hips forward, torpedoing deeper into her throat… BUT WHAT IF SOMEONE COMES IN NOW!?!?

She begins working her head back and forth, up and down, slowly at first, the organ disappearing from sight entirely, then emerging spit-drenched and glistening. He fidgets a little, goggling with amazement, getting a heightened terrible ecstasy from watching his pulsing cock piston into her receptive mouth. His eyes watering. Her eyes closing as the tremors begin to hit him. The heat at the base of his prick burning with a fire that spasms from the tail of his spine to the tip of his glans. And suddenly his love-juice is pounding up against her epiglottis. He ejaculates, emitting a strangled curse, a sigh and a wail, in a rapid one-two-three order. And Ms Manmuncher gulps with obscene enthusiasm…

‘Which particular aisle did you get this particular item from, sir?’ asks the Check-Out girl, handling the pulsating pussy-pylon with professional detachment, ‘it doesn’t seem to register on the sensor. Perhaps I should call the manager?’ She runs a red nail-varnished finger up and down its length in an exploratory fashion, listing commodities in her head by way of comparison – cucumber, Cumberland sausage? No – those new aerosol cream dispensers? She smiles with sudden inspiration, and encircles the humongous schlooong covetously, moving her hand up and down. Slowly at first, but increasing her speed with each stroke…

— 0 —

It’s drizzling as Wade Welton trudges from his flat towards the Community Centre that evening, and he’s still fuming. Sexual harassment. A clear case of uninvited interference. Had he made any indication of wanting his trousers removed, and for Ms Manmuncher to do… that, to him? No. She’d just taken it upon herself to force her attentions on him. It was completely uncalled for. She’d treated him as little more than a sex object. They were all the same – Rachel, Quinley Osgood, none of them understood.

But the Literary Group are more perceptive. They see beyond the superficial. They’ll understand. He forces a wry grin of anticipation.

They’ve already begun as he blusters in. Two men. Four mid-thirties to middle-aged women. And himself. The Local Scribes. Bernard Garforth is reading a long dialect poem about the gaslights in Halifax Meat Market, which Wade’s flustered entrance interrupts. Bernard glares, his eyes set into his face as close as an Alsatian’s testicles. Wade shuffles to find a seat as the group aim megaton scowls of disapproval at him. Only Wendy Woolwich ventures a half-smile of welcome. She wears a long paisley dress to go with her long black hair, and ‘Diary Of A Chambermaid’ ankle-boots. She always smiles secretly, shyly, but attractively. She understands the need for a woman to retain a demure sense of the unapproachable. He approves. Sitting back, rain-moist but comfortable, to listen with elvankent escort feigned interest to the rest of Bernard’s verse.

Next, it’s Wade’s turn. He reads his latest poem, “Sunflower Car”, a scorching abstract piece resonant with Beat Generation imagery, but it doesn’t go down too well. So he tries his more reflective “Enter The Trousers Of Memory”, but they remain unmoved.

Then, the slug called Gerald Mandrake-Smythe snarls ‘is that the best your prosaic petty little mind can come up with tonight, Weston?’ Gerald had two letters critical of the Government’s policy in Syria published in the local newspaper. This gives him illusions of literary importance. He’s pencil-thin with the kind of dark wavy hair once common to bit-part actors in old Elstree Movies, shiny hair slick with brylcreme. He coughs imposingly, then reads “Motorbikeabelia” – a rather slight surrealistic knock-about, and they love it. Gerald sits back with a sneer on his face, and a complexion that reminds Wade of nothing so much as badly-chewed bubblegum.

‘The problem, Weston, is that you’ve squandered your talent’ he gloats triumphantly. ‘You’ve prostituted your ability by descending to cheap pornography that denigrates women.’ He’s smirking now like the little boy who’s Mother uses new biological ‘WHIZZ’ to whiten his shirt in a TV ad.

‘No. It’s not like that’ Wade blusters, feeling his colour rise. ‘From the first piece of erotic fiction I wrote I drew up a list of rules for myself, the first of which is that none of my stories exploit women. They only explore the psychological motivations and…’

‘Your so-called stories deal explicitly with copulation and all manner of deviation in a salaciously unsavoury manner.’

The ladies snicker and applaud dutifully. Although Wendy seems slightly less accusational.

‘You are nothing but a cheap pornographer, and a disgrace to the ‘Scribes” finishes Gerald smugly, smiling like a Game-Show Host over a humiliated contestant.

Wade glances around him for signs of support. And finds none. A short woman with a hawkish face, dark hair and thick spectacles glowers across the table. He winces. It’s a plot. They’re jealous of the success of my stories. And to camouflage their jealousy they pretend moral outrage. Or perhaps they really ARE outraged?

He squirms with miserable embarrassment, and retreats into his head… a small drop of fluid oozes from the slit dividing Dick Galore’s glans as the Check-Out Girl manipulates his dingdurum expertly. In the Supermarket queue behind him a short woman with a hawkish face, thick spectacles, and a well-stocked shopping trolley tut-tut-tuts impatiently at her watch. He smiles at her sympathetically and then returns his attention to the girl who licks her lips with concentration. Her grip on his wang-dang sweet-pootang is tightening as her speed increases, so that its thick maroon arrowhead bulges with tension. His testicles jiggling with the force of her action. She glances up apologetically, ‘one moment sir.’ And then orgasm hits him. He’s spurting whiteness uncontrollably across the bar-code sensor, the cash-desk keyboard, and her uniform. She wipes the trembling tip of his mighty sword clean with a special offer token, and carefully replaces the deflating princely pecker back into his fly. ‘Sorry for the delay, sir, but I have to be sure, you understand?’ ‘Of course, no problem.’ She hands him the receipt. Her fingers sticky-moist with the love-stains of his semen. She smiles efficiently, ‘thank you for your custom. Be sure and shop with us again…’

It’s still raining as the Literary Group disperses into the night. It seems the rain will never end. Wade hangs back in the Community Centre porch, turning his collar up against the cold. He’s thinking hatreds at Gerald Mandrake-Smythe. The pompous slug reminds him of an actor in an old film, but he can’t recall the title. The one about a repressed Building Society accountant – or was he a Bank Manager? Anyway, he planned to poison his nagging and sexually-frigid wife, but ends up not doing it because an angel – or something, stops him, and…

The Nissan Micra that pulls up beside him belongs to Wendy Woolwich. ‘Get in Wade, I’m going your way.’

They pull sharply out of the otele gelen escort car park onto Market Street and out towards the ring road in an uncomfortable silence, emphasised by John Lee Hooker growling on the radio. ‘I enjoyed your new poem’ ventures Wendy at length. He watches her profile in a strobe of streetlights. She’s always seemed mysteriously attractive, but reserved. A good judge of poetry too. He likes that.

‘Thank you’ he manages inadequately.

‘But I also enjoy your erotic magazine stories, despite Gerald’s moral objections.’

He tenses as she eases the Micra through the traffic lights where cars shimmer by like glistening aquatic monsters through the tide, her headlights burning as they cut across the Common.

‘I don’t like sexism’ she continues. ‘But I do like sex. Your stories convey that well.’ She pulls off the road abruptly with a squidgy b-l-a-a-a-t of spray, water drenches the windscreen, then the wipers slick it away as they nudge across a margin of muddy grass and deep dark nebulae of pooling rainwater, into a copse of trees. The engine throbs into silence. Grey curtains of rain drum at the roof.

She turns to him. ‘Your writing can be very… arousing, Wade.’

He blinks involuntarily, quickly like desperate semaphore. Something he always does when he’s scared.

‘You celebrate sexuality, Wade. You celebrate those primal drives through which the most ordinary of people can reach the highest expression of sensuality.’

He can see her eyes glowing in the dashboard light as she reaches across to him. Her blouse is already open. He goggles at what is revealed. Reaches out to touch a pretty-pink and swollen nipple as large and prominent as his thumb-tip, on a pale and perfect breast.

‘I respect women’ he gasps. ‘I support Feminism.’

‘I can tell you do.’ Her large luminous dark-brown eyes are flames of living force. ‘Most men respect most women for their intellects – at least, that’s what they tell us to get is into bed. But it’s alright Wade, don’t be a-Freud of your fantasies. Transport me to the heights of ecstasy like the girl in your story, the one who pretends to be a Parisian streetwalker.’ She wriggles the reclining seats to horizontal, leaning over him so her breast hangs an inch above his face, offering the nipple. Suddenly, all the world is nipple-shaped. It hangs there in space for him to kiss. He sucks it in, nuzzling it gently with his teeth. The nipple grows larger and firmer in his mouth. She withdraws it, and replaces it with the other. It, too, swells to his attentions.

She kisses him, her tongue attacking his mouth, probing his tongue, teeth and gums while she’s reaching down, unzipping him and extracting his cock with one hand. He can smell her aroma. An exotic odour he’s never smelled before. Perfume and passion, sweetness and sweat. Her long dark paisley dress rides high enough to reveal that she’s wearing no underclothes. Pubic hair as black as night. He can feel his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back.

John Lee Hooker moans over the raw bones of rhythm. The windscreen mists over to obscure the world beyond. She lies spraddle-legged, guiding his cock to the entrance of her vagina which is dripping with lubricating fluid. The head of his prick lodges awkwardly at its tight mouth for no longer than an indrawn breath, locates, and then slithers in. He’s aware of her fingers clawing the flesh of his buttocks, urging him on. He moves, responding to her, slides deeper, then all the way. She catches her breath, and nips her lower lip. And he’s there. Enveloped in warm woman-flesh, in the soft wet clasp of her body.

No paper fantasy.

No fictitious eroticism.

This is where he belongs. It’s like coming home. For a long liquid moment they lie quietly. Looking into each other’s eyes. Experiencing the sensation of each other’s bodies, sensations he’s never experienced before. How to describe THIS in fiction? He tries out a story idea in his head – ‘sex speaks in tongues, and it speaks every language ever devised…’

Her sphincter-muscles squeeze his cock encouragingly.

‘Wendy’ he whispers.

‘Wade’ she responds, ‘just fuck me.’ They fuck. Slowly and tenderly. Then faster. Then furiously, until he feels the white viscous fluid at the pit of his spine reach critical mass, and he’s wincing with anticipation…

The Soft-Porn Scribe keys ‘print’, and waits until the final sheet shunts out from the printer. He glances through the text with an approving smile. Not bad, he muses. Not bad.

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