Social Diving

I've met a hundred Mandys.

Everyone has.

You know the type: Stuck somewhere between late teenage carnal appetites and early twenties jaded malaise, marooned in the perpetual gym-class line-up of her grubby urban neighbourhood.

It's only Tuesday in another dull, listless week - two days before she can go and pick up her benefit money from the Post Office and she's got nowhere to go but down to the bus shelter with like minded ladies and gentlemen, smoking fags, sending furtive text messages and talking about reality TV.

Despite the wear and tear of her weekly grind she looks undeniably provocative, poured into a pair of faded blue jeans with holes in the knees. There is maybe just a little excess flesh spilling out between her waistband and the hem of the cheap black padded jacket she wears. She sports a pair of dirty white trainers.

My friend G and I slip by in the BM, talking about whether she's worth wasting time and money on. It's a gentleman's discussion in the boardroom: Projected scenarios, the expletive laden crudeness that men flatter themselves is exclusive to them.

Presently I text her and ask what she's doing. It's a change of pace. She had sent both of us messages last week asking if we wanted to come out. We hadn't responded and, predictably, the trail had gone cold.

'NTHING MUCH' comes the staccato reply.

'WANT TO HAVE SM FUN?' I reply.

Three minutes later we pass the shelter again and she's still there, chatting on a pink cell phone, chewing gum, looking available.

'Hey Mandy.' We rock up just like a pair of old friends I see one or two of her consorts eye G's motor with suspicion and then just disdain.

'Hey.' She fires back, warm for a second then the urban-chick cool slides back over her 'Call you back.' She says into the handset and hangs up 'Where you off to then?'

We converse. While I wouldn't quite call them pleasantries, something bounces back and fore until G notices the yellow-black hide of a traffic warden in the rear-view.

'So are you coming or not?' He harries.

She leans lower, head close to mine. 'You're a bit fucking forward, aren't you?' She weighs up her options for the rest of the morning. It doesn't take long.

'Fifty quid and I'll go with you both.'

City streets: Anonymous, but the little box on the dash knows where we are. Now the car is filled with the smell of cigarettes and naff perfume as we projectile our way towards an appropriately cheapo motor motel secreted right in the heart of the urban sprawl.

It's all along the lines of: 'So where have you guys been?' and 'What's been up?'

Dumb pleasantries. But she's only half listening to our responses; too busy clocking the plush interior of G's car, wondering how much we're worth and whether anyone is checking her out riding with us.

I am tempted to query how many other guys she has juggled since the last time we plied her with drink and solicited this rendezvous, but decide not to question the lady's morals too much.

Eventually, we roll into a cracked, litter-strewn car park with concrete walls and lopsided wheelie bins, it is hidden up an improbably narrow alleyway. The air is sallow and dusty, the sounds of commuters and the roar of the traffic little more than a stone's throw from us.

I haven't stayed in one of these motels before. It belongs to a chain of establishments whose profit margin eroded along with their quality of service as the limitless resources of large corporations filled every high street and every industrial estate with uniform flop houses.

This location is kept running on a shoestring budget by a Polish staff who eye the three of us and our bottle of vodka without judgement but, perhaps, a little jealousy.

The motel room is muted beiges and queasy oranges, a grimy looking double single bed and a foldout sofa. It's like a seventies nightmare, but the post-psychedelic dog-eared grime somehow fits what I have in mind.

We swig from the bottle while settling into the room. It burns and it's unpleasant but pretty soon we are all under its initial effects, pulses racing, cheeks burning.

Helpfully, G threw the man at reception an extra tenner for a room with a DVD player under the telly and so soon our mindless chitchat are spurred on by a nice German film featuring an overweight lady in blue PVC.

'I quite like a bit of porn.' Mandy muses conversationally as if trying to impress. She stares at the screen as a German gentleman spits in the overweight lady's open mouth and then again on her milky, exposed breast.

'She's fucking minging though... him too.' She concludes thoughtfully.

No further small talk. Suddenly she's on G, tonguing him like a teenager at some crap disco.

I momentarily feel my age.

Betraying her nerves, she slips clumsily out of her jacket and lurches to her feet, offering me full access to unbutton the front of her sinfully packed out jeans. The implied proximity to restricted areas beneath is almost beyond casual and I'm really starting to take to this girl.

I smile at her winningly and hand over the bottle.

She takes it and swigs without thanks - neither tonic nor twist of lemon required for the lady.

Next the jeans drop with my help as I caress the slight swell of her belly and help myself to her shapely hips. She wears a cheap pink nylon thong, her legs creamy pale and curvaceous. It pleases me that she carries a pound or two extra but stops short of overweight and her body looks better than I had expected. Rough around the edges though she is, I'm sure she doesn't go unnoticed around town.

G is behind her working fast: What can I say? He's a man of appetites and I'm glad he's on our side, given the damage her does to that bra.

'You owe me for that.' She almost snaps testily as some kind of floral detail pings across the room.

My guess is that her heart rate just spiked as she realises the nature of what she's agreed to.

Happily she isn't in the mood to back down and promptly her tits make their first appearance from out of the wreckage of the bra.

Her nipples are pierced. They seem keen on the arrangement.

I doubt they had much choice.

On the TV the overweight lady peels back her shiny corset and gets down to the business of sucking and fucking. Her tits bounce up and down in a pleasantly violent way as she works.

Meanwhile hands slide across and pucker Mandy's soft white skin, enjoying the aesthetic details of her body, caressing the little star tattoo on her hip and the Celtic tramp-stamp in the small of her back. I watch G's tongue as it traces and bisects the ink, slicking the skin.

I drink and of course, watch, slumped on the bed, cheeks hot.

'Want me to suck you off?' Excitingly nonchalant.

She's on G with ease and conspicuous experience, salivating all over it in glistening strands that all too quickly terminate running down over his balls.

She pumps and sucks him expertly and I wonder how many nights she's knelt down on a darkened football field or in a derelict building getting her technique down pat. Has she worked her way from trite relationship to trite relationship sampling the local lads, getting used to the taste of one before suffering some trivial fallout and moving on to another? Or is does she continually pursue gratification: Friday nights on cheap cider and Ecstasy, having her pale haunches banged by whoever is lucky enough to indulge her in ten minutes of the right patter. Then off round the local pubs, vodka and Red Bull until she staggers back on the arm of some local knucklehead to be nailed against his greasy headboard until the two of them lose consciousness?

No matter. On the couch she is beginning to warm to our less than romantic advances, growing eager to get through her work. She leans into G on all fours, butt sticking out. His face, as she takes him deeper into her mouth brings to mind the bell on a 'test your strength' game at a fairground. Duly chiming it's jackpot as the stud through Mandy's tongue ignites the nerves on the underside of his cock.

I desire to be involved and so approach the wholly gratifying image slathered across the couch.

Peeling that tacky little thong to one side the material stretches to the limit of its tolerance, the damp stained string that battled so valiantly to hold her dignity in check pulling tight, pinching into her flesh.

Spreading her, kneading her arse cheeks apart, cruelly exposing everything to the harsh artificial light, the scent of piss, sex and cheap nylon, intoxicating as it is, fills my nostrils. I like that she declined to take a shower before we started. The smells of her body are visceral, thrilling.

I survey her pouting opening and thumb it wider, keen to enjoy the merits of her fragrant, inviting cunt. She's too nervous to get it wet but by the time I've blotted my tongue against it a couple of times and drawn round from clit to fuck hole, I appear to be doing something right as she gushes a little in my mouth -- copper tasting.

I fuck her opening with my tongue as hard, deep and rhythmically as I can until the jaw cramps come. All the while G's brutish course in and out of her mouth recoils through her body, pushing her pliant backside repeatedly into my face.

Slap, slap, slap. We meet, face to arse over and over again.

Slap, slap, slap. Her tasty little bum hole squished up against my nose, as she is bodily impelled against me.

When I run out of steam, I introduce a finger, then two, finally a third. They squelch in and out, accepted easily as she arches her back trying to get herself off with what she's been given to work with.

Like George, I'm curious. Not so much for new experience as to push my luck. While she stops to prematurely ask G if he is ready to cum (I find this unlikely), I lick my index finger and introduce it gently to her teasing, puckered arse hole. It gives slickly and pleasantly swallowing my finger. I have grave doubts that she is a virgin in that respect.

No sir.

On TV the German lady is trying to retain her dignity as a circle of jeering men jack off in her face. Her face is already streaked with goo and it streams in rivers down her chest in viscous rivulets.

Personally, I think she still looks amazing.

None the less, Mandy inhales sharply and turns on me.

'Oi! Your not going in my shitter.' She riffs charmingly.

You have to admire her way with words.

I look innocent and abashed as she turns, enjoying the conflict of interests. Her foul mouth turns me on.

'I'd do you both, I said. But, no one touches my arse except my man.' She announces still rubbing at G's shaft, kindly ticking him over while we parlez.

'Come on, you're sticking it right in my face! I'm only human.' That's it, the crux of my argument.

'Does your man know you do strangers?' G, springs to my defence, halting her work on him.

She considers this and then softens somewhat, breaking into a predatory smile. A shrug of the shoulders: 'A bit.' she says 'He lets me away with murder.'

'How about another 50 quid to let us both take you up the arse.' I intone romantically. 'It'll be very, very gentle.'

She mulls as we both smile charmingly, eyeing us with suspicion.

'I'm not kidding. No submission stuff.' I add.

A heavy pause. In the background quiet moans come from the onscreen action.

'Very gentle.' Mandy reinforces, gets up off the couch and quests for the vodka bottle, blocking the action onscreen. I catch sight of Miss Fetish Germany, now sitting on a dining table being fisted by a younger blonde who looks stunned enough that one might believe she had accidentally wandered onto the film set on her way to the library. Moustachioed and tattooed men egg her on.

I wish her well.

Meanwhile Mandy wipes the spunk-tainted saliva off her chin and drinks admirably until she gags on the booze.

The clammy bottle is handed back and more leering compliments change hands. She smokes a cigarette and places a hand on her hip, surveying us arrogantly.

We all down some more vodka and she slides five crumpled tenners into a pocket amongst the heap of clothes on the floor.

'I take it you aren't a complete to novice at this type of thing.' G enquires.

'I don't normally fuck guys for money.' She defends, sounding indignant as if trying to reassure us that she isn't actually a prostitute. 'But if I can make a few quid just for having a shag...'

'Fair do's.' G states.

My admiration for this woman grows.

'Anyway, you lot don't seem to be short of a few quid.' She reasons.

Through the afternoon heat haze of raw spirit she looks like a haughty high-rise princess.

Suitably refreshed and patently drunk, she goes back to work with a wry smile. She climbs on top of me and rides me wet, loud and hard while G leers at us, absent-mindedly playing with himself.

In our fevered tidal wave of hedonistic exertion, the high-rise princess forgets herself and farts as I drive my cock up into her cunt. It is obscenely loud and she sniggers, apparently pleased with herself as I marvel at the glorious vulgarity of this woman.

For there is no need for humility here.

'Oh, sorry.' She smirks.

'You did that on purpose.' G opines.

'You liked it.' She shoots back, shows him her middle finger and sits down hard, grinding round in a series of appealing semi-circles.

Before this get too comfortable and familiar, she slides herself off me, pussy suddenly vacant and hungry, looking for a change of pace.

I gaze at my companions, temporarily in need of inspiration. The room seems hazy - the sensation of sticky and wet on my abdomen, the smell of cock and cunt heavy and acrid in the air.

Out of the corner of my eye I lock onto the TV set, trying to overload my senses -- maybe when I cum my heart will simply burst from the excitement: Girls and guys now, outdoors. A comely young woman rides in reverse cowgirl while a male suitor sends an arc of cum splashing over her perky little tits. I watch as scoops it up and drops great dollops of his load into her mouth.

'What a whore.' Mandy breathes.

Surely she can't serious.

'Not like you, eh?' I taunt.

'Fuck off.' She pants.

'Bet that girl wouldn't fuck a stranger though eh, Mandy?' G teases, gripping a bottle of babyoil that I thoughtfully positioned near the couch.

He squeezes the bottle out with considerable overkill. It trickles through the gaps between his fingers, pissing down onto the cheap pile of the sofa. I watch him begin to work before joining in. Four hands paying homage to the princess' rump, working the grease into her skin, sliding fingers into the valley, seeking out the object of our lust, sliding in, easy and gentle there more insistent, deeper spreading her, carnality taking over.

We need to be inside her arse.

I bully my way on top as G props her in his arms, cupping her tits, fingering the little gold rings that impale her nipples. Now her rump is pushed up against my abdomen and she's oozing baby oil from her rear entrance. It's all I can do to keep from climaxing.

She grabs a slug of vodka from the table next to the sofa then lays her head down on G's chest.

I slide right in, massaging her. Smooth and insistent, in and out.

She takes it like a slut, swallowing me then shitting me back out, widening around my cock, allowing herself to be invaded, deeper and deeper until my cock draws out, dirt streaked.

I look at the ceiling and drift off in hot ecstasy. Her body goes rigid beneath my grasp as she struggles with the invasive pain of the act, sound is distant. I can't even tell if G is also inside her.

We remain like that, as she milks me.

It is but minutes until I can't take any more and so, gripping my cock I squeeze off inside her -squirting the whole load right into her violated opening, leaving not a trace.

As my vision returns to focus I notice that G is indeed keeping himself entertained inside her and as I stagger back onto the bed he cups an arm around her waist and pulls her round, spooning her.

I think perhaps she wants to say something, but the intensity of what she has just been through inhibits formation of the words as pain and pleasure no doubt, freely mingle. Perhaps she just wants to persuade him not to invade her anally again, but whatever, the window of opportunity passes and for the second time (that we know of) this day, she gallantly accommodates a gentleman's cock a startling distance into her bottom.

On telly, a completely distinct German lady on TV is involved in a similar practice. The camera leers at her gaping hole as the gentleman withdraws. There are other gents lining up behind to give her exactly the same treatment.

'Go slow.' She manages, her voice little and on the submissive spectrum for the first time.

She gets her request as I watch G feed it through his fist into her as her inner thighs and buttocks glisten with a cocktail of oil and cum.

G hasn't got much left anyway and his penetration is a token gesture, a childishly male conquest.

When he cums there is no way she is holding it all in. He backs off leaving her back door decidedly less puckered than before we met.

As I watch the wanton spectacle with lust-crazed delight she appears to lose control of herself and ejaculates a hot dirty river of semen from her bum. It rapidly pools on that nasty beige couch.

She looks down between her legs at the mess she has just squirted out.

'Oh you dirty pair of fucks.' She says.

Now Mandy's getting dressed. She still hasn't taken a shower.

I like that.